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Dum petit infirmis nimium sublimia pennis 
Icarus, Icariis nomina fecit aquis. 

Ovid's Trislia. 



BOSTON : 



BUSSELL, SHATTffCK AND CO. 

1836. 



?4« 



1**1 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year of our Lord 1336, by 

RUSSELL, SHATTUCK AND CO. 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



PRINTED BY JUSTIN JONES. 



TO 

JOSEPH HARRINGTON, JUN., 

as a slight evidence of a Friendship, which it will ever be my pride to acknowl- 
edge, I dedicate this work. 

ISAAC CLARKE PRAY, JUN. 



PROSE AND VERSE. 



THE PLEDGE. 

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 

Would that I were 
Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke, 
* * * * there might I solve 
A riddle that torments me ! 

Seest thou not a pale 
Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away 1 

Oh, too true ! 
Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse 
Which no beloved hand has closed, alas ! 

Goethe. 

About a half an hour's ride toward the south from the 
town of Bonn in Germany, is a deep, thickly-set covert 
of full-grown trees. Within their enclosure, the traveller 
may see the ruins of a habitation. On that spot, lived 
not quite an hundred years since, a very singular and 
mysterious being. With only two persons did he associate ; 
— one was a man of similar character with himself, — 
the other, was an only daughter. 

Albert Von Stautnan, with an enterprising persever- 
ance, had sought for those unrevealed things, which are 
1* 



q THE PLEDGE. 

in the depths of darkness and obscurity. His thoughts 
and his beliefs were his mind's communion spirits, and it 
is no hap-hazard presumption to suppose that his approach 
to the veil, which separates the mortal from the spiritual 
world, was so near that, through the interstices — for the 
veil is not so closely knit as some imagine — he beheld 
some of those sights which flesh is not commonly heir to ! 
Gustavus Kutzen, his friend, who, like Von Stautnan, 
often analyzed the mysteries of the mind, and who studied 
to detect the gossamer threads of the intricately woven 
garb of nature, had been to him the sun of his happiness, 
and the mutual thoughts, which their souls made known 
to them, were as stars in the zone of their destined and 
endless existences. They poured out their minds to each 
other, as if they had but one being : — their hearts, too, 
grew together, 

Like violet-bells upon the self-same stem, 
Pouring the dewy odors of life's spring 
Into each other's bosom — 

and year after year they lived on ' giving and taking 
strength reciprocal ! ' 

Von Stautnan had no love for the world — its follies, or 
vexations — nor did he court the applause of its thronging 
multitude. Nevertheless, his daughter was a being, whom 
he loved with an affection pure and priceless ! Through 
sunshine and storm, he hung over her with a paternal 
fondness, and his prayers secret and ceaseless, were, that 
they might meet after death in the paradise of spirits, — 
there to be joined by a mother, of whom she was the 
accurate 'presentment,' and whom Von Stautnan had 
formerly cherished, as the breath of his life. Whether in 
philosophical reflections, or examining the closely twisted 
threads of mystery, his daughter still remained to him 



THE PLEDGE. 7 

the same, — remembered and beloved. Never did any 
coldness gather on his brow on account of her, either in 
her presence or absence. She was the pride of his heart: 
— and, indeed, was not altogether uninstructed in that 
finer knowledge, which exposes the mysteries of life. — 
Von Stautnan himself often gathered from her lips a 
thought, which sent his soul into the innermost recesses 
of reflection. 

Gustavus Kutzen, also, had considerable regard for the 
daughter of his friend; and though he seemed to have no 
peculiar love for her, yet his heart often yearned over her 
in silence. What was extremely marvellous, his gaze 
upon her was remarkable for its fixedness ! — But it was 
no gaze of love. He knew what no other mortal knew — 
her destiny ! Nay, he oftentimes appeared to be very 
desirous of communicating to her father something inti- 
mately relating to her. This he finally promised to do, 
so far as he was able, when the time should have arrived 
for his departure for a far distant land: — a departure 
which it was impracticable to delay, bound as he was, on 
the one hand, to reveal all things of importance to his 
friend, and on the other, by a superior power to whom he 
had promised that Von Stautnan should not be made 
acquainted with the mysteries of which he was master, 
while there was a probability of their meeting on earth. 

It was about a year before the time set for this departure 
of Gustavus, that he entered the study of his friend. — 
Hour after hour passed away until midnight, during which 
time they discoursed upon the hidden and mystic secrets, 
which ear hath seldom heard, and which it hath seldom 
entered into the heart of man to conceive. When the 
old clock chimed out with a melancholy tone the midnight 
hour, they passed out of the house — then, crossed the 
garden, and entered a grove on the banks of the Rhine, 



3 THE PLEDGE. 

which had often been the scene of their meetings. There, 
before an altar, which had been previously erected, they 
knelt together ! Each gazing upon the other's face, they 
pledged themselves that the one whose death first came, 
should, if possible, burst from the fetters of spirituality, 
and revisit his friend. It was a solemn promise — not an 
half-hearted pledge ! It was almost unearthly — almost 
spiritual. As the dark eye of Kutzen flashed the meaning 
and earnestness of his soul into that of the equally earnest 
eye of Von Stautnan — as each grasped the firmly -set and 
nerved hand of his companion — as the tears moistened 
their eyes, while they gave that mutual and daring pledge, 
the whole face of nature was suddenly becalmed, and the 
Rhine itself, whose waters, a moment before, plashed on 
its banks, was silent and pulseless, as if to hear and ratify 
the promise. Ah ! and does it not seem to be the case 
that nature has her invisible and watchful spirits, who are 
ever hanging over those who are pleased with her, and 
who delight to seek out her character? Is it not the case, 
that those spirits will bend their listening ears to hear any 
thing which is kindred to their being ? Oh ! there have 
been those — there are those, whose cup is not of this 
world, who would grasp that of another, and who are not 
contented with their searchings, till that other is pressed 
to their lips. Such beings were Von Stautnan, and 
Gustavus Kutzen ! 

dfr 4*. Afc «SE* «ii» jai» -afr -ZL ilk 

"TV* •7Y' *7v- *7v* 'TV *7T "7V* *7V* "TV* 

On a fine autumnal evening, two forms were beheld 
coming forth from the grove, on the banks of the Rhine. 
The arm of the one was entwined around the neck of the 
other, and their right hands were clasped with a heart- 
felt fervency. Their conversation, at first, was in an 
under-tone, and they seemed to be engaged in it, as if 
the time allotted to them was short — like that, which is 



THE PLEDGE. 9 

held between two persons, whose spirits are about soaring 
into their destined worlds ! They had in a few moments 
arrived at a spot, where an old larch broke the smoothness 
of a verdant lawn, when Von Stautnan, who was bursting 
with anxiety for the secret, which Kutzen had promised 
to impart, suddenly exclaimed : 

c What ! Dost thou believe the stars are revealers of 
the destinies of mortals ? ? 

Kutzen permitted the hand of Von Stautnan to fall, 
and raising his own, pointed with his finger to the sky, 
and inquired : ' Von Stautnan, dost thou not believe in 
the influence of that star, which blazes on the right of 
the galaxy? ' 

1 Its influence cannot be questioned,' answered Von 
Stautnan. c But the stars are not types, that we may 
read in them our destinies ! If so, the world w r ould be 
mad to read them.' 

' Not so ! ' replied his friend, c The stars are types, on 
which are graven the past, the present, and the future, 
but all cannot — must not read their language. To thee 
and me alone is it given to understand their mysteries ! ? 

Von Stautnan now asked his friend, whence he had 
derived this knowledge ; but all inquiries were useless. 
The only answer was that it had been given to him by a 
superior power ! 

' Canst thou then, reveal the language of the stars ? ' 
asked Von Stautnan. 

' To a certain extent, I can,' responded Kutzen. 

c Then, as far as thou art able, reveal ! ' ejaculated Von 
Stautnan. 

c I will,' murmured his friend. And taking five, small, 
round ivory sticks, each about a foot in length, from under 
his cloak, he laid them on the ground, in the figure of a 
pentagon : then, looking up into the face of his friend. 



|0 THE PLEDGE. 

who was watching him with a gaze of steadfastness and 
awe, he continued : 

( Albert, these are the wands of revelation ! Thou 
must place them thus — if thou wouldst know thy destiny : 
but according as thy knowledge of this book is, so shall 
thy power be, over the mysteries of creation ! ' 

As he spoke, he threw within the pentagon, a small, 
black book with golden clasps. Von Stautnan seized it, 
and opened to its pages, but could not discover the 
characters — the moon was at that moment concealed by 
a passing cloud ! 

Von Stautnan proceeded : c What is the secret res- 
pecting my daughter ? ' 

' Thy daughter ? ' answered Kutzen. ' Look to her 
quickly ! — Oh! fool that I am, why have I thus delayed? 
— Interrupt me not, Albert, with questions. I have done 
all that could be done for a friend — so, do not blame me 
hereafter! — Farewell, forever ! ' 

Half unconscious, and bewildered, Von Stautnan was 
harassed by many difficulties. He did not feel as if he 
could yet part from his friend; and, rising, what was his 
astonishment to behold the dim form of Kutzen in the 
darkness, moving swiftly away ! Thus was Von Stautnan 
left alone in doubt and perplexity — but not in despair. 
Hastily, he placed the ivory sticks under his cloak, and 
firmly clasping the book in his hands, he sought his house. 
The import of the caution, that he should look to his 
daughter — Kutzen's exclamation of remorse, because he 
had delayed, were certainly mysterious — and the cause 
of his sudden departure was only solved, by the thought 
that the demands of a superior power beckoned him 
away ! 

Von Stautnan had now arrived at his house. His mind 
was wholly concentrated in his daughter ; but alas ! she 



THE PLEDGE. \\ 

was not to be found. In vain did he search throughout 
the habitation ; — she had gone, and as he supposed, 
forever ! Then did Von Stautnan seek his study, and 
strange thoughts and lurking suspicions came gloomily" 
upon his mind. So steadfast, however, was his friendship 
for Kutzen, that the belief in the purity and constancy of 
his affections was little changed. Still, hour after hour, 
thoughts flitted in swift transition from his brain. At 
length, he ventured to unclasp the mysterious book. — 
Mysterious truly ! — for the first words which caught his 
attention were, 

After penetrating many of its singularities, wearied and 
perplexed, he laid it aside, and threw himself on his couch 
in order to refresh his disquieted and worried frame. 

The morning was just dawning, as sleep stole upon 
him. A flood of delicious sun-light came pouring in 
through the broad window of Von Stautnan's study, 
which overlooked the coursing waters of the Rhine — 
the pride of Germany ! But Von Stautnan slept. The 
black, matted locks were turned over his broad, dark 
temples, and the lashes laid over His eyes, as though 
death had sealed them. He awoke not until the evening. 
Oh ! wild indeed, were his thoughts, at that moment. 
What had passed seemed a dream ; and he was not 
persuaded of its reality, till he discovered the book, and 
the ivory wands, in his wardrobe. He would have sought 
his daughter, but he knew it was in vain, and he contented 
himself with reading the book of mysteries. Each day, 
that book was the object of his undivided attention, and 
as he mastered its intricacies, he made many curious 
discoveries — but alas ! he learned nothing respecting his 
daughter. 



12 THE PLEDGE. 

The neighbors, by this time, were interested in his 
history. They had found that he was alone ; and wild 
stories were circulating in the hamlets. It was said that 
he communed with the spirits of darkness ; — that there 
were strange voices heard, and flitting lights seen at night 
around his dwelling, and among the yews and firs of the 
neighboring Glen. But these were false rumors. The 
only extraordinary noise was en the night of Kutzen's 
departure. It was the cry of the daughter of Von 
Stautnan. 

After an application of three years to this mystic book 
— even then, Von Stautnan had not unravelled all he 
desired. The stars he could partially read at times, 
and they were his companions. But he had not yet 
endeavored to raise departed spirits ; nor had he applied 
his knowledge, when his wands were in their proper 
situation. He had, however, determined to make trial of 
them, and accordingly one night with this intent, he pro- 
ceeded to the Glen of the Bridge. 

It was winter. — Where a huge crag lifted its snow-clad 
and shining sides, apparently supported by the giant 
boughs of several larches, mingled with a thicket of 
shaggy fir-trees — a cataract poured its ceaseless and 
thundering current into the boiling abyss below, whence 
flashing water-drops were sent darting into the air. A 
rude bridge was thrown over it, supported on either side 
by ice-girt rocks. The bridge, itself, seemed too w r eak 
to bear the pressure of a human foot — and its moss- 
covered timbers, though now partially clothed with ice, 
told that its day of use had long before been fanned away 
by the wings of Decay. The cataract, which partially 
formed the Glen, was so situated that its waters were 
tributary to the Rhine, whose black waves were now 
rushing by with a voice awfully monotonous, — their 



THE PLEDGE. 13 

invisible pulses beating vigorously, swollen with the 
many streams which poured from the surrounding hills. 

The clear, round moon was diffusing its loveliness 
over the waters and icy peaks, with peculiar magic ; 
the clouds slept far away beyond the horizon ; the ' in- 
exorable tooth ' of the frost was snapping in the still- 
ness with a tinkling echo, and the air was motionless, 
undisturbed by a breath, or a sound of wind. To this 
Glen, and near to the cataract, had the zealous Von 
Stautnan penetrated, to prove the potency of magic. 
His cap hung loosely over one side of his face, and his 
black cloak was fastened around his throat. The only 
assistants, beside him, were his w T ands. The book he had 
left at his study; but he was too well read in its language 
to forget the version of its incantations. In a deep, 
solemn, ponderous, commanding tone, he repeated the 
star-interpreting words ! Then for the first time in his 
life did Von Stautnan bend in awe ! Owing to the 
brilliancy of the moon-light, there were but few stars to 
be discovered, and those, one after another, vanished, 
except seven, w T hich stood immediately over the cataract. 
Out of them, Von Stautnan learned that seven months 
would intervene before his knowledge could be perfect; 
and he also read that his daughter was murdered by the 
hand of a Boatman, to whom she had given some slight 
offence. During her father's absence with Kutzen on 
the night of his departure, he had seized her, and carrying 
her out on the Rhine in his boat, had strangled her by 
pressing her head under the water. Then retaking her 
body he had buried it beside his hut ! 

As soon as this discovery was made, Von Stautnan 

formed a scheme for the destruction of the Boatman, 

whose rough cabin was situated, on a hanging cliff, near 

the cataract. The accomplishment of this scheme was 




14 THE PLEDGE. 

destined for the morrow ; and Von Stautnan sought his 
study for rest — his mind filled with fantasies, and burning 
for revenge. 

The sun came up over the Rhine, the next morning, 
gilding all things that it looked upon — even the habitation 
of the murderer ! There it stood, a hut formed of several 
slabs and mats. A rude door, bleached by storms, faced 
the pathway, and a solitary casement was cut on the side 
of it, out of which the Boatman could look down on the 
Rhine; the roof was very conveniently formed of an old, 
time-worn boat, with its keel upward. At this hut Von 
Stautnan had arrived at sunrise, and striking violently on 
the door, he called aloud on the Boatman. A rude 
black-browed visage protruded from the casement, mut- 
tering in harsh language anathemas on the disturber of 
his slumbers ! 

'Come forth!' cried Von Stautnan. The Boatman 
closed the casement in wrath, and then came out into the 
pathway. He knew it was Von Stautnan, but he little 
supposed that the murder could have been detected, after 
a lapse of three years; and he approached, sullenly, yet 
without hesitation. ' Murderer ! ' exclaimed Von Stautnan y 
clenching him on the throat. The Boatman struggled, 
gnashed his teeth, and in turn seized his antagonist. They 
moved on, writhing together. The face of Von Stautnan 
blackened, as the Boatman with demon violence endeav- 
ored to tear away his cheek, at the same time holding him 
with one hand by the throat, while he vainly endeavored 
to grasp the Boatman, w T ho seemed to be desirous of 
throwing him from the precipice, near the edge of which 
they had now arrived. The struggle was nearly equal, 
but the Boatman evidently the stronger, had gained the 
ascendancy, and was about to swing Von Stautnan over, 
when his foot slipped, and both fell to the ground. After 



THE PLEDGE. 15 

much struggling they sprang to their feet. The Boatman 
was injured ; but the tender frame of Von Stautnan was 
moved with giant strength — and giving a sudden jerk, 
he hurled the Boatman headlong, over the crags — until, 
jfinally striking on a rough icy peak, he was dashed to 
pieces. It was an awful death ! It would have curdled 
the blood at your heart to behold the mangled body, and 
the shining ice which coated the crags, covered with 
crimson gore, but it did not move the heart of Von 
Stautnan ! Revenge is at all times sweet — and it was 
thrice sweet to his soul. 

But it might be supposed that this singular being, 
whose knowledge was already beyond that of most mor- 
tals, would have been contented. But ah ! how aspiring 
is the mind. It would soar above the heights — it would 
dive below the depths — would seek the stars, ay, grasp 
the sun, and yet not then, be satisfied I Yes 1 It would 
move on, conquering, and to conquer — unconscious of 
anything, but its searchings ; unconscious, though hell 
itself— a gulf of fire and blackness, below — should be 
gaping to receive it, when its wirjtgs should be melted 
away and made powerless, by its too near approach to 
that, whose nature is in rebellion with its existence ! It 
need not be said, that such a mind was wrapt within Von 
Stautnan, when it is recollected that he perused, again, 
that secret book, until the seven months had passed, 
almost unheeded, away; — that he braced and riveted his 
soul with the determination to receive the perfection of 
knowledge, at the expiration of that time ; — and that 
the form of incantation had been so studied, in letter and 
spirit, as to become almost a part of his very soul. 

Night had gathered her sombre drapery around her. 
Hushed were the stars, and their still, soft, unchanging 
light threw its dim lustre over the earth. The birds had 



\Q THE PLEDGE. 

gained their coverts, and were voiceless. The hum of 
insects had ceased, and only the dull song of the cicada 
was heard above the continuous murmurings of the waters. 
The fire-flies were flitting hither and thither, over and 
through the grass and shrubs, and the perfume of the 
field-flowers was fragrant to the sense. The month of 
June had just set in, gladdening the earth with its myriad 
glories. The cataract, which rushed down with a mad 
and tremendous impulse, when visited by Von Stautnan 
in the winter, now poured over with a low, brawling, 
monotonous music. The Glen was still a lonesome place, 
dark with shading yews and ragged firs, which seemed 
like hags, standing in the blackness; and the rough rocks 
shooting up, stood hanging, as on the air. The wavelets, 
escaping from the whirlpool beneath the cataract, were 
joyously caught by the waters of the Rhine, which coursed 
peacefully by. The moon soon wheeled above the hills* 
The stars unbedimmed by a single cloud, vanished into 
the distance, as the powerful light of the moon threw a 
veil of richer lustre over all things. 

Under the cataract stood Von Stautnan — his soul 
entranced with the splendor of the scene, and his eye 
alternately watching the Rhine, the cataract, and the 
stars. His wands were laid at the foot of an old, withered 
tree. Bowing before the rising moon, he buried his face 
in his hands, then rising, he repeated the incantation. 

Deep repository 
Of the future and the past, 

Give a mortal glory \ 
Even though it be his last. 
Reveal ! reveal all truths to him, who now 
Dares down before yon rising moon to bow !, 
Who calls on the unseen deep — 
Where Past and Future sleep — • > 
To open and to show. 



THE PLEDGE. 

What mortals seldom know. 
Open ! Open ! Open ! 
Though gulf of blackness roll beneath, 
Though poison flow, 
For mortal's woe, 

Open 1 Open ! Open 1 
Though in that deep, all passions seethe, 
Though serpents wreath — 

Open ! Open * Open ! 
Give up all! — Give up alii 
Be heedful of the call ! 
Give up all ! — Give up all ! 
I call ! — I call i 
Open ! Open ! 
Open ! 



The place of death could not be more silent, than was 
the Glen, while these words were uttered in the fervid 
tones of enthusiasm. Von Stautnan had bowed to the 
earth, and again had hid the moonlight from his eyes. 
A dark, purple cloud, which had been sleeping in the 
west, came peering up, over the top of the Glen — grad- 
ually darkening, with its shade, every thing over which it 
hung. The Rhine was veiled from the light — and the 
moon, which had risen not far above the horizon, was 
soon concealed by the thick purple of the cloud, which 
moving swiftly onward, spread its full, ponderous folds 
around — now deprived of light, and exchanging its pur- 
ple, for ebon blackness. The air was cooled; the birds 
sent out a complaining cry; the wind, gathering from 
every point, stirred the trees, and increasing, as the cloud 
came over, waved the saplings to and fro with its over- 
powering force. The sleeping thunder, now awake, 
roared in the distance, and rolling on, broke over head 
with a report, as if the portals of wrath had been opened. 
The large rain-drops pattered down, and the lightning 



|3 THE PLEDGE. 

gleamed with a darting quickness through its dazzling 
pathways. The storm was terrible ! Successive flashes 
lighted the sky, and another peal of thunder, louder than 
the former, broke over the head of Von Stautnan who 
sprang upon his feet. Anon ! the vivid red-streaks of light 
shot wildly down the deep, dark cloud, throwing a livid hue 
over the waters. Von Stautnan staggered with awe and 
wonder. The wands which had been laid by his side, at 
the root of an old, withered tree, were only to be seen by 
the lightning-fires of the storm. The thunder above 
rolled again — the lightning flashed at the same instant — 
and as swiftly descended, with a tremendous crash, 
cleaving the tree asunder ! 

c Gracious Spirits ! ' exclaimed Von Stautnan — as a 
gaunt skeleton arose between the cleft sides of the tree 
from its root; and he fell on his knees. Slowly it changed 
its appearance — and the form of Gustavus Kutzen 
stood before him ! 

' Spirit of my friend ! ? continued Von Stautnan, c where 
hast thou been, since thy departure ? ? 

' In the deep mine, which has not been opened to the 
light ! ' replied the spirit. 

c And where is my daughter ? ' rejoined Von Stautnan. 

£ She dwells within that mine, among countless millions! 
Wouldst thou see her, Albert Von Stautnan ? ' 

£ I would ! ' answered he, as he bowed his head in 
trepidation. 

' Behold, then, yon point of light, far, far over on the 
Rhine and watch its coming ! ' 

The light gradually grew to a shining shape. As it 
approached the cataract Von Stautnan grasped a tall 
sapling, for support. His voice forsook him — for on him 
shone the blazing eyes of a noble, pale-white horse — 
whose thick white mane floated over his neck, with a 



THE PLEDGE. J9 

banner-like beauty, and whose silver-shod hoofs beat the 
sparkling, yesty foam, on either side of his broad, shining 
breast, while the waving veil — which covered the daugh- 
ter of Von Stautnan, who rested on his back — was seen 
at every flash of the lightning, rising on the air. 

The thunder again muttered in the distance — the 
lightning flashed — and a shining bolt went rushing down 
the sky. The cloud broke away in the heavens, and 
through the rift, the stars shone brilliantly — then passing 
on, the moon stole out, chasing the darkness from the 
earth. The sapling to which Von Stautnan clung, on 
the approach of the horse, w T as blackened, and all that 
remained at its root, was the tattered cloak of the romantic 
and aspiring student. 



20 



ONTARWA. 

In Leyden, Massachusetts, is a singularly romantic spot. It is an 
almost unknown Glen, where the fancy may picture innumerable 
sights ; and where the artist's pencil could be engaged upon land- 
scapes of unsurpassed interest and magnificence. Its rocks, hanging 
as on the air, stand out, and arouse the spectator by the substantial 
sublimity which they create. MS. 

There is a Glen mid rocks and hills, 

Where oft in youth I 've silent stood, 
My heart's-blood kindling with keen thrills — 

'T is Nature's form-filled Solitude, 
And if the world should seem to scorn, 

There is the spot where I would choose 
To stand, and see my young hopes dawn. 

And set my wearied spirit loose ; 
For there it seems a soul can be 
Blest with a world as rich and free 
As e'er within the mind arose, 
For a broken spirit's soft repose. 

It is a place for legends wild, 
Which on the memory are piled 
Like those dark rocks which, jutting, shoot 
Up and up ! from a sourceless root — 
While out each chink bright flowerets bloom 
And fill the air with sweet perfume. 
Some shrivelled up, their leaves appear, 
Yellow and red, decayed and sear ; 



ONTA R W A . <2l 

There, one with crimson-spotted bells, 
A tale of bloody pastime tells, 
Another, drooping with the dew, 
A tale of sorrow will renew ; 
While violet-cups divinely bright, 
Reveal some maiden's love to light, 
And each thing there — or flower, or stone 
Repeats a legend of its own. 

But now my mind once more is led, 

To where yon crag lifts up its head — 

And seems to stand in grief's dark shroud, 

Kissed gently by the morning cloud, 

Which as the sun comes up to view, 

Mounts, soaring to its heaven of blue, — 

Like a fond sister, when she breaks 

From the embrace her deep love makes, 

And onward to some viewless shore 

Departs — remembering evermore 

The last sad time she pressed the hand 

Of one, who will forever stand 

A precious monument to mark 

The heaven-created, kindling spark 

Of that affection, w T hich first sprung 

Where Eden's vine-wrought bowers hung. — 

A crag ! whose form recalls to mind 

A scene which long has been enshrined 

Within that temple of the brain, 

Which all past feelings can retain, 

And in its magic store-house keep, 

Held down in oft-awakened sleep. — 

That scene — oh how its forms now pass ! 
Bright as some field, whose waving grass 



22 ONTAR W A . 

Is flashing in its every blade, 

With diamond-gems which Night has made. 

Before the Pilgrims of our West 

Their march of conquest here begun, 
When no war-whoop disturbed their rest 

Beneath the Indian's cheerful sun, 
A Sachem of an Indian band, 
Who dearly loved his native land, 
And most of all this beauteous spot, 
Which from his youth had been his lot 
To gaze upon with welcome eye, 
As the blest place where he should die. 
Once roving with a careless pace, 

At twilight's hour stood on yon height, 
And gazing round, he seemed to trace 

The clouds, that blazed with golden light 
Far over in the glowing west, 
Where, bright, the sun had gone to rest. 
While thus Ontarwa stood in thought, 
As though some hidden thing he sought, 
But firm and silent as the oak, 
Which does not feel the light wind's stroke ; 
Before his sight a vision blazed ! 
He marked it well, and while he gazed, 
A strange canoe, with wings outspread, 
Seemed skimming o'er the ocean's bed, 
And turning to the Indian's shore — 
Whose waves dashed up with deafening roar, 
Which seemed to speak and murmur there, 
As if that coming spoke despair — 
It ceased to make its bird-like springs, 
And softly gathered up its wings ; 
While from it came a pale-faced band, 



O N T A R \V A -23 



Planting their feet upon the land, 
And the poor Indians flying west 
Sought in the wild a place of rest ; 
But as they swiftly moved in flight, 
A cloud spread out before his sight, 
And all the scene was lost in night. 

He leaves the craggy steep, whose base 
The gurgling rills with waves inlace, 
And though he seeks his peaceful cot, 
The saddening vision leaves him not ; 
But day by day he thinks it o'er, 
Until the May-Flower greets the shore. 
Then to the Sachem some are sent 
To learn of him his tribe's intent. 
He, quick, calls forth each aged sire, 
And near the glimmering council fire 
They talk — and each declares in turn, 
The feelings which within him burn ; 
And brave Ontarwa, when they cease, 
Savs to the strangers, c Be there Peace ! ' 
Ere many moons had passed away, 
The strangers joined in hostile fray. 
The battle-cry and shout were where 
Once, all was still as breezeless air ; 
And every silver stream and flood, 
Was reddened with the Indian's blood. 
Ontarwa's own bright, sunny seat 
Not e'en escaped the battle's heat, 
But smoke went steaming up the hill, 
Mingled with mists from rock and rill, 
While the bright hut he loved so well. 
Before the Pale-face, prostrate fell ; 
Nor wife, nor children, could he find 



24 ONTARWA. 

To cheer the sadness of his mind ; 
But pent by foes upon that height, 
Where once the vision met his sight, 
Raging with hate he knit his brow, 
And uttered there a vengeful vow. 

1 Off to another land I go ! 

Whence eyes shall ever on ye gaze, 
And ye shall ever be a foe, 

While yon bright sun shall keep its blaze. 
And ye shall feel, when strong winds shake 
Your stolen homes — they come to break 
Upon you, swift, as that red fire, 
Now sweeping onward with your ire. 
And ye shall never sleep in peace, 

While one lone Indian has a breath, 
And never shall your torments cease, 

Till ye and yours shall come to death ! 
And now I go to yon bright land, 

Where my brave fathers press the chase, 
E'en they — the mighty of that band, 

With hate-glazed eyes your paths shall trace, 
And to the utmost send their power, 

To make the hail of vengeance shower.' 

This said, he threw him from the height, 

And on a rock which stood beneath, 
A bloody form — a dreadful sight, 

Ontarwa yielded up his breath ! 
And from that rough, high rock has sprung 

A tree, the fatal spot to mark, 
And when the rill, at morn, has flung 

Pale mists around the summit dark, 
Its leaves will shake, and quiver, till 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. <£5 

The mists cease rising from the rill; 
And when the storm-wind passes by, 

With fire-red lightning, it will gleam, 
And from its lofty summit high, 

The eyes of spirits gazing, seem 
To curse the sons of those, who came 

And in the Indian land upreared 
A mighty nation, and a name 

By every other land revered. 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

3Srainar*K 

Brain ard's productions have become very popular ; 
not for any displays of remarkable genius, but for their 
sort of c thrown off' easiness, and unstudied grace, and 
delicacy of sentiment. They seem to rise, like the fabled 
goddess, who was born of the ocean foam. They are 
gentle in their excitements — like the Sowings of the 
under-currents of some small lake, where the surface is a 
quiet mirror, only broken, at times, by the skimming beak 
of some domesticated, golden-pinioned songster. 

His poetry is not of a lofty order. It contains not the 
strong, wild breathings of a soul, whose poetic ardor is 
like tameless fire. We love his little pieces. They are 
the companions, whom we would keep by us on the bank 
of a small stream, in an afternoon of June, when all is 
quiet, except the low, dull singing of the hidden insects, 
and the slight shiver of the tree-tops. 



26 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

He has no great claims to the regard of posterity ; yet 
we would not be deprived of his works, for they impart, 
better than the productions of any other American poet, 
that soothing and holy influence, to the ocean-like mind, 
which comes gratefully and pleasantly at all seasons, and 
especially, at that time, when we feel injured and forgot- 
ten by those ruling powers, which grasp, with blind igno- 
rance of our nature, our unyielding and uncomplaining 
spirits. 

ISrgant* 

He has been ranked by some, as the first of our poets; 
but the number is small, who think that he merits such 
rank. More poetical master-spirits are on the north and 
south of him. His flights are like those of the swallow, 
seldom resembling the fearless darings of the eagle. He 
gives much beauty to his productions — the offspring of 
care; he has much correctness — the emanant of taste ; 
he writes but short articles, thereby displaying the weak- 
ness of his genius, and the fear of losing his reputation. 

The poetry of his blank verse is more exalted than that 
of his rhyme, and he owns some of the richest and most 
unique specimens of that kind of writing, which can be 
found in modern poetry. 

It is well known, that the little Nautilus lives in the 
depths of the waters, and in fair weather mounts to the 
surface, throws up its gossamer sail, and is wafted 
along in perfect safety; but in prospect of a storm, furls 
its sail, and sinks to the bottom. So it is with Bryant. 
He comes slowly to his task — trusts not to his powers 
to bear against a sea of criticism, but makes safety even 
before danger, and is contented to live in his little sonnets 
and occasional verses. 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 07 

His claim is small on us, and to rank him too near the 
first poet is doing him too much injustice. He can no 
more stand, by the side of some of his contemparies, 
than the Nautilus can be said to equal the majestic and 
storm-braving ship. 

We are disposed to be favorable to Dana, but yet we 
will not esteem him as many do, the best of our poets. In 
sooth, we cannot tell who holds, or who is likely to hold 
such a situation. We can see no reasons for giving Dana 
the place, and we should, if it was demanded of us to 
decide, hand over our vote to that effect. 

His productions resemble, more than any thing we 
think of, some of those dark, old paintings of the early 
masters. There is a blackness without a gloom scattered 
over them, and you will often discover a slight dash, 
which will be brilliant, or a rich coloring, whose beauty 
will hide the surrounding darkness. 

We esteem c The Buccaneer ? one of the best modern 
poems that has been published. It is full of power, and is 
remarkably concise. It works on our emotions with tre- 
mendous force, and excites in the mind some of the best 
feelings. 

As to the prose of this writer, it may be said to be full 
of poetry, which is quiet and still, unbroken by harsh- 
nesses, and only at times awakens us by some sudden 
gorgeousness or dazzling splendor. 

Dana resembles Wordsworth, in many respects. He 
exhibits much love for the nature of man, and would 
awake in the mind of others that respect for the soul 
which leads it on to discover the joys of its contemplation, 
and the ennobling principles which it excites when under 
proper observation. 



28 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

We have wondered considerably, that the poems of this 
author are so little known, and that their merits are so 
little appreciated. We turned into Cheever's Place-Book 
to find some of his pieces, and not a verse was there. 
We said to ourself, here is a determined blindness, and 
threw down the book, disgusted with its plan. 

Fairfield exhibited his poetical mind in his early pro- 
ductions. There was great poetic rashness in them ; but 
now that age has mellowed, in some degree, his taste, he 
writes better, and with more power. He has improved 
much ; and this is saying what can be said of but very 
few. 

He ascends the c spirit's ladder ' c even to the starry 
world, 5 and fearlessly presses toward the portals of the 
temple of poetry. He is encinctured by more of the 
hallowed fire, than any of his associates, excepting Per- 
cival, and his soul leads him on with such ardor, that he 
has not time for perfection. His mind is wrapt up in the 
enthusiastic love of his art. 

He has a good portion of the spirit of ancient poetry, 
and with a little more simplicity, his writings would 
become still more popular, than they are at present. 

His genius is real. It is wild to extravagance often- 
times. Like a powerful spirit, he will carry us away to 
sights of frightful sublimity, or will lead us through scenes 
of quietness and joy ; but too often to the former. The 
progress of his genius may be likened to the broad stream 
of Niagara, pouring over into the abyss which it is 
bewildering to behold ; but where, is sent up a bright 
and beautiful mist, converted into a bow of beauty, and 
glory, and magnificence. 

He is becoming daily better known, and is yet to reap 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 09 

the laurels of fame. The work in which he is now 
engaged, will be to him as precious incense ; and if he 
continue to progress in the paths of justice and indepen- 
dence, a coronet of stars will mark his brow through 
future ages. 

®ailecfe. 

This writer has very little of what may be called Mil- 
tonic fire; and since we have but one notion in respect to 
genuine poetry, we class him among those poets, whose 
only endeavors are to please. Compared with Milton, 
what is he ? — Compared with Byron, what ? Place him 
with Burns, is he equal. How does he appear with 
Coleridge, or Wordsworth, or Cowper, or Wilson, or 
Moir, or Hogg ? With Percival how does he compare ? 
Is the construction of his mind as poetical as that of 
Dana ? 

In comparison with these, he is insignificant, and yet 
only in comparison with these can his merits as a true 
poet be tested. If you place him with those, who, for 
amusement, write poetry occasionally, he towers above 
them — he stands high ; but whether he will be esteemed 
highly by posterity, is a question easily answered. 

He has, like others of the New York phalanx, written 
a very little ; and that little has been well finished, so 
that we are pleased with his writings. We would com- 
mend them as peark of value ; but we cannot compare 
them with the gems of greater worth. 

There is nothing which can so well give a notion of his 
powers, as the reading of his c Alnwick Castle.' He is 
in it, throughout the whole. Indeed, it strikes us now, 
that his poetry resembles a castle, not as we might imag- 
ine it to have been in the days of romance and chivalry ; 

but as the time-worn, moss-covered relic of departed 

3* 



30 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

glory, glorious only in reality, as it is filled with the 
trophies and equipments of former times, and surrounded 
by beautiful objects, which are associated with many 
things which all love and admire. 

Whatever this person has done in poetry, has been 
correctly and well executed. His taste is of the nicest 
and most chastened species. His works are pages of 
beauty and propriety, and of rich, exalted poetry. He 
has not thrown out upon the world, like as many feathers, 
fugitive pieces, which light on one newspaper to be puffed 
off by another ; but his works are full, finished poems, 
like those productions of the great masters who 

wrote whilome in Albion — happy isle ! 

This author is scarcely seen in his works ; and we only 
think of him, after we have come away from his writings. 

There is a reason for this. Of his three principal pro- 
ductions, two of them — and of these ' Hadad' is the best 
— are written in the dramatic form, which precludes the 
author's appearance ; he is not present, as Gower, to 
give us description of minutiae matters, but his creations 
pass before us like the picture of a dream, or as imaginings 
of our own fancy. As to the dramatic form of composi- 
tion, we think it is the best mode for the poet to give out 
his feelings, since he is lost for a time, while the charac- 
ters he has created sustain the whole business, and free 
him from much with which he might be charged, and 
which might be some detriment to his reputation. The 
ancient poets had this secret to their own perfection. 

Hillhouse is remarkable for his confined brevity : for 
his perfectness and delicacy. His productions resemble 
angels of beautiful forms, whose appearance stands out 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 31 

before us in just symmetry, their wings poised with majes- 
tic grace, and altogether free from impurities; — so well 
proportioned are they, that nothing could be imagined, 
which placed by them could add to their glory or perfection. 
This author's works, like those of others, who are of 
great merit, are only in the memory of a few. But the 
praise of the few is far preferable to the acclamations of 
a thoughtless mob ; and to be held in estimation by them is 
an earnest of that glory, which time places on the grow- 
ing, budding, and imperishable crown of the true poet. 

SLotiflfelloto* 

This poet has not written a great quantity ; and that 
which he has written, although it defies criticism, does 
not, in our estimation, render him what some would wish 
him to be, one of the first poets in this country. 

We hold it a good truth, that a fair reputation among 
our acquaintances is not glory with posterity; and this is 
exactly what we believe that Longfellow possesses. We 
judge that if posterity calls his name, as a poet, it will be 
only to remark, that in viewing American scenery his 
poetical eye is an exact and perfect mirror. 

As a descriptive poet Longfellow stands in an elevated 
station — and we would be pleased, as well as others of 
his friends, if he would deliver over to the press, more of 
his productions. We know of very few productions, in 
the summer months or in the close room in winter, which 
read and please so well as his — especially, when they 
are most descriptive. 

Longfellow is a capital painter of all that is beautiful. 
We have not in our mind a single startling picture which 
he has created. Any writhings of agony — any passionate 
exclamations, except such as have been refined by the 



32 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

contemplative soul, we have never beheld. His pictures 
are all soft-hued. He paints, to use his own words, 

The sylvan pomp of woods — the golden sun — 

The flowers — the leaves — the river on its way — 

Blue skies — and silver clouds — 

****** 

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in — 
Mountain — and shattered cliff — and sunny vale — 
The distant lake — fountains — and mighty trees — 
In many a lazy syllable 

There is very little running, apposite sentiment inter- 
woven with his descriptions. He does not seem to see, 
when he is describing a scene, anything palpable, corres- 
ponding to it, in the mind. What, it occurs to us, makes 
descriptive poetry of real moral utility, is to have every 
scene with its shadow of sentiment or thought, not con- 
fused and thrown up in a mass, at the end, but distinct 
and defined, and attached to its proper object, so that the 
soul may catch it, at once, and be hallowed by its power. 

There has been very little calm, devotional poetry 
written in America. We wonder that there is not more 
of it; because we have so many divines, whose pens flow 
with remarkable ease and grace. Every one knows the 
fact that the mind loves religious musings; and, that it is 
equally pleased with poetry, founded on the same spirit, 
cannot be questioned. 

Peabody has admirably succeeded in this department. 
A silvery line of pure religion, fresh from the heart, 
vibrates throughout, and girds all his pieces. His wri- 
tings are the repositories of holiness and goodness — 
having a pervading spirit which turns man to the contem- 
plation of himself and his God. 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 33 

Yet Peabody has no lofty genius. He is tame, except 
so far as his subject is concerned. There are no wild, 
brilliant flashings of inherent poetry, which display an 
imagination wholly and deeply poetical. They are quiet 
musings, freely and pleasantly written, but remarkable 
for nothing but the true fervor of religion. 

There is a class of readers, however, to whom he is 
peculiarly acceptable — they are not those who make nice 
demands for genuine poetry — but such as love religion, 
as it exists in the mind, without the instructions of revela- 
tion. 

There is nothing very original in his productions. An 
acquaintance with the best writers has purified his taste, 
and has given a poetical cast to his thoughts. Yet his 
productions are worthy of repeated perusal, and his repu- 
tation has been well acquired. May he live to write more 
and to enjoy his reputation, unmolested by satire or cal- 
umny. 

Iterctbai. 

Percival is the most learned poet of America; indeed, 
it may be doubted whether there can be found in the 
world, a more learned man, whose poetical rank is as 
high. Of that vast number whose names are, and have 
been, before the public, no one will be held perhaps, in 
higher estimation by posterity, than this writer; and to 
whomsoever shall fall the task of recording this man's 
character, there will on him rest a responsibility, such as 
has fallen, hitherto, upon no American biographer. 

Percival's productions are so numerous, that to mention 
his particular character as a poet, is almost impossible. 
One of his great characteristics is power. This is in and 
throughout all his works. His imagination is free, almost 
unbounded ; and he seems to soar with enthusiasm amid 



34 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

the elements of poetry; not totally heedless whither he 
goes, but hazarding too much, sometimes, by boldness. 
His descriptive verse is generally rich and delightful — 
always American where it is not too imaginative, and his 
perception of the beauties of nature is great — greater 
than that of any one of our poets who has gone before 
him, or who is contemporary with him. 

His sentimental poetry, though less evident in some 
pieces than others, is often simple and dignified, though 
sometimes morose and solitary in its principle. 

We are unable to tell to what PercivaPs poetry can be 
likened. Perhaps, though old, the best thing which can 
shadow out its character, is a river one of whose sources 
is a brook, over which willows hang silently, but which as 
we move downward and onward spreads out into a stream 
of brightness and beauty, till at last it empties itself into 
the ocean. 

3Pierpont. 

This writer we do not place among the chief poets of 
America, because he is what we call a true poet, but 
because he is a better poet of his order, than any one who 
can be found in this country. We mean the couplet-wri- 
ters, or those followers of the school of Pope, whose 
writings are, generally, sensible prose pieces dressed up 
in rhyme. 

Pierpont does not belong to this school entirely. He 
has some better qualities than most of its writers. He is 
concise in his poems, and has considerable strength ; and 
merits, as he receives, the commendation of the public. 

It is, however, owing to his occasional pieces that he is 
popular. He has written the best specimens of odes, that 
have appeared in America. These will stand in compari- 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 35 

son by the side of the compositions of the best ode-wri- 
ters of England. 

He is American in spirit. His odes are so also ; and 
no person who can read his verses will deny to him praise 
for the correctness of his style, and for the spirit which 
breathes and burns through his writings. 

c The Airs of Palestine,' is the poem by which he first 
distinguished himself. This is a pretty production, and 
falls upon us like a strain of music when twilight is gath- 
ering her shades; — we have read it often with great 
pleasure, and hope always to have it by us through the 
summer evenings, to cheer us at our open window. 

We may be excused some time or other, if not now, for 
introducing a name which in all probability has been, like 
the writings of this author, but very little circulated. 

Pike has a poetical mind of lofty order — his writings 
are free out-pourings of a glowing imagination, and the 
fault with him is, he does not labor any in revising his 
productions. 

That readers may judge for themselves — for we do 
not wish thus early, to make many remarks — we give an 
article of his, which has been seen but by a very few 
persons — and which will be read with much interest. 

TO SPRING. 

O thou delicious Spring ! 
Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers, 

Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing, 
From odorous beds of light-infolded flowers, 
And from enmassed bowers, 
That over grassy walks their greenness fling, 
Come, gentle Spring ! 



36 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

Thou lover of young wind, 
That cometh from the invisible upper sea 

Beneath the sky, which clouds, in white foam, bind ; 
And settling in the trees deliciously 

Makes young leaves dance with glee, 
Even in the teeth of that old sober hind, 
Winter unkind ; 



Come to us — for thou art 
Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring ! 
Touching the sacred feelings of the heart, 
Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming'; 
And thou dost ever bring 
A tide of gentle but resistless art 
Upon the heart. 

Red Autumn from the south 
Contends with thee — alas ! what may he show 1 

What is his purple-stained and rosy mouth, 
And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow, 
And timid, pleasant glow — 
Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth, 
And greenest youth 1 

Gray summer conquers thee — 
And yet he has no beauty such as thine : 
What is his ever-streaming, fiery sea, 
To the pure glory that with thee doth shine 1 
Thou season most divine, 
What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy 
Compare with thee 1 

Come, sit upon the hills, 
And bid the waking streams leap down their side, 

And green the vales with their slight-sounding rills; 
And when the stars upon the sky shall glide, 
And crescent Dian ride, 
I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills, 
On grassy hills. 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 37 

Alas ! bright Spring — not long 
Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence ; 

For thou shalt die the Summer heat among, 
Sublimed to vapor in his fire intense ; 
And gone forever hence, 
Exist no more — no more to earth belong, 
Except in song. 

So I who sing shall die. 
Worn unto death perchance by care and sorrow ; 

And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh, 
Bid unto this poor body a good morrow, 
Which now sometime I borrow, 
And breathe of joyance keener and more high, 
Ceasing to sigh ! 

We suppose that there are many who esteem this writer 
one of the best bards in the American band of verse- 
makers ; and fearing that we shall not be understood in 
our remarks — as we are not likely to be, where taste is 
not very discriminate — we will remark, that Sprague is 
our favorite ; or, in other words, that we like his writings. 
But, we do not like them as real, genuine, untrammelled 
poetry ! Poetry B is a graduated thing ; y and we always 
judge it by comparison, believing that 

there is writ 
Gradation, in its hidden characters. 

As there are between the highest archangel and the 
lowest mind, different orders of intellect, so the World of 
poetry has her ministers for their various offices, each 
differing in capacity. 

We do not think that Sprague is on the lowest round of 
the c Spirit's ladder; ' on the contrary, w T e believe that he 
is not far below mid-way, and at a height where he need 
not blush to stand. 
4 



38 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

In warm and vivid fancy Sprague is wanting, yet his 
works are generally well polished and beautiful specimens 
of art — the creations of refined taste ; — not covered 
with varnish-polish which is sometimes given to beautiful 
minerals, but made valuable by the more elaborated and 
permanent polish, which it requires great pains and labor 
to gain. 

His poetry is for the city and for the parlor, not intended 
for the soul which is heedful of scenery, or in contempla- 
tion of its own mystery. It resembles a delicate piece of 
statuary, seeming to have life ; but, on inspection, 
proving to be the work of a cultivated taste and of great 
art. 

Yet what we have just now said, will not apply to all of 
his compositions. There are works, and many passages, 
of striking poetry, of soothing philosophy, and of finely 
wrought musical language by which the most ardent student 
of poetry would be profited, if taught to admire. 

We wish that all poetry were as well finished, and as 
scrupulously scanned as Sprague's ; — it would save 
many a man of genius much severe criticism, and would 
render him far more agreeable to general readers. 

This author's writings, by all lovers of poetry, we 
believe are much admired and applauded. With the 
emotions and passions of the mind, he seems to be engaged, 
for the most part — and seeks not for wild conceits, 
6 beautiful, when detected. ' His versification is vigorous 
excessively, and his conceptions are animated, and graphic, 
and full of deep interest. He does not strive to obtain 
words of beauty and ornament, but transcribes his feelings, 
or the pictures of his imagination in correct and fresh 
language. 



SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 39 

His eye is open on nature and her forms; and the 
whole broad scene, which he may be creating, rises 
before him peculiarly definite — not distant and dim, but 
near to his organ of vision — each portion bright and full, 
even to truth, as if drawn up by the power of a telescope. 

There is a tendency in this accomplished writer, we 
perceive, to picture out, after the manner of Crabbe, 
some of the darker feelings of the human heart. The 
sunlight of his genius does not always silver over, and 
shoot through the cloud, in his mental vision, lighting it 
up into pleasing brightness ; but leaves some parts of it 
dark and shaded, so that the scene which is rising, 
becomes deeply shadowed and loaded with a heaviness, 
which casts a gloom on the gazing soul. We trust that 
this tendency will be checked, as much as possible; or, 
at the least, that this poet will not hazard such picturings, 
for the sake of displaying a power, which he, doubtless, 
possesses. 

It is to Whittier, in our opinion, that the American 
public ought to look for a long and elaborate poem, which 
may redeem the poetical profligacy of our poets ; and we 
trust that he will be induced to commence one, for we 
believe that there is no one — and we except not the poets 
of high name among us — who would succeed so*well. 

Willis . 

Willis has had much to encounter, since he com- 
menced as a public writer — and among other things, as 
much of malignity as one could be reasonably supposed 
to be able to endure. When he first came out as a writer, 
he received much praise ; and though he has had his little 
c dalliances,' yet we think that it is not our business, or 
that of the public, to meddle with his notions, and, least 



40 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 

of anything, to enter his toilet-room, and give him advice 
on the tie of his cravat, and such other matters. 

Willis is evidently a careful writer. His pieces are 
faultless in versification; and they exhibit a close com- 
munion with the old masters, who appear to have mel- 
lowed his taste to an excessive degree of refinement. 
For nice and delicate descriptions — for giving the ex- 
pressions of those feelings which are hardly to be des- 
cribed, and for giving the philosophy of what he describes, 
he is unrivalled. 

His style is rather peculiar. He has, sometimes, too 
much of the glitter and show of verse; yet much that he 
has written is perfect in its kind, and is more chaste and 
correct than the poetry of most of those, in whose school 
he is ranked. 

There is an intellectual character about his works, 
which will ever render him a beloved poet; and, however 
he may write, be it better or worse, he will still be res- 
pected for what he has executed, and his genius will be 
extolled, in a degree, for what it was able to accomplish. 

The poetry of Willis is always pleasant reading; but 
there is so much of it, and it has so many characteristics 
that it is hard to express its quality by any figure — it is 
a combination of lilies, pearls, diamonds, and fire, 



41 



THE OATH. 

FROM A BEQUEATHED MANUSCRIPT. 

Dark and gloomy was the hour of my birth. I entered 
the world a misanthrope. Many were the disappointments 
of my childhood, and many the blasted hopes of my 
maturer years. Ambition was my god, and I worshipped 
him in adoration. But fraught as my boyhood had been 
with vexations and troubles, cursed as I had always been 
with the frowns of misfortune, I was successful in one 
thing; I gained one object, and became an author of 
much renown. The first production of my pen was well 
received by the great and learned, and considered a 
master-piece of genius and erudition. Every one pur- 
chased the book, every one read it. I had lived a seclu- 
ded life, and was never known as the author of the work; 
the praises of the critics therefore were constantly in my 
ears, the flattering reviews in the journals of the day con- 
tinually before my eyes. I grew wild in my superiority 
to others ; I felt that my mind was of a higher order than 
the generality of intellects, and it seemed as if I were 
dashing like a vision upon the world — a bright, attractive, 
glorious, enduring vision. I looked upon most other men 
as fools, as brutes, mere exercisers of instinct. I hated 
the world more than ever, and was more than ever wrapt 
up in the gloom of my own reflections. But I was not 
happy, or contented ; I felt that there was something 
wanting in the solitude I had already begun to love; — 
there was a void, a blank spot to be filled. It was a part- 
ner I wanted, to whom I might pour out the emotions 
4^ 



42 THE OATH. 

which leaped up continually in my bosom. Misanthrope 
as I was, I longed for society — I burned for a being 
whom I had formed in imagination — one who possessed 
intellect, genius, accomplishments, and with these, beau- 
ty ; one who could relish my pursuits, and soothe me in 
my arduous labors. 

On a solemn night, dark and sullen as the gloomy 
imaginings of my own brain, I sat surrounded by my 
books, and wrapped in close reflection ; my brain was 
wrought up to a feverish excitement by a clustering crowd 
of thoughts and fantasies ; I began to trace out the fea- 
tures of the being I had desired. I formed her in imag- 
ination, viewed her well, and knew from the thoughts that 
had been rolling over my mind, that such a one I could 
and would find. I felt more determined than ever that 
the void which so affected me, should affect me no longer. 
Ambition and Happiness struggled for supremacy in my 
breast, as Death and Life have often since done. But 
Ambition conquered — ay ! conquered — and in an evil 
hour. 

I swore — swore by the fellest oath that ever came from 
the lips of mortal, by a rash, wicked vow — that the 
woman whom I should join to me, should be such a one 
as I had pictured in imagination. I lifted my hands up to 
God with the most solemn determination, and vowed — 
that vow ! oh ! let me not breathe it into a mortal ear ; 
let it not be shown that ambition conquered intellect; ay! 
that it is stronger ; even as the dashing waves are migh- 
tier than the gentle ripples. What did I do ? Oh ! rash 
fool that I was, to conceive happiness to emanate from 
being associated to such a one — one formed in fancy's 
mould. 

The vow was made — I sprang upon my feet, like a 
tiger in the wild-wood, when hunger wakes his frame, and 



THE OATH. 43 

makes him swell with strength. I smiled in ecstacy of 
joy, to think an oath was on my head which promised 
happiness to my solitary life. Yes, I smiled — I laughed 

— laughed with a demoniac, guttural laugh. I joyed, 
but it was a maniac's joy. Again I was silent, and gazed 
upon my books awhile and thought, and thought, till a 
dim, unconscious, all-forgetting, death-like stupor folded 
over me. For a time I was as if annihilated. Oh ! 
would to God I had been ! But when I came to feel 
again, to know that I was — that I existed — I found 
myself prostrate, my face upon the earth; my eyes were 
closed, but yet I saw, ay, saw such such things as I may 
not tell. The oath in burning letters blazed on the sky 

— I saw them although I looked down deep, deep into the 
earth. I arose and felt that I was a miserable outcast 
from society. 

I went forth into the world — ambitious fool ! and 
mingled with the beings who encompassed me. I was a 
singular weed in a garden of innumerable flowers, and it 
seemed that I could distil a poison if I willed, and blight 
them all; but no, I would not, for there was one I des- 
tined for myself, and I feared lest I should destroy it. I 
sought that being I had wished, long and patiently, and 
could not find her. 

The oath blazed ever before me ; its characters shone 
more brilliant than the ever-burning sun, and pointed me 
onward like a supernatural finger ! I tried to forget it, but 
it gave forth, as it were, a sound indefinite, yet sure and 
dreadful; it told me to proceed. I did; and when a period 
of pain had gone, I found a being whom I fancied the one 
I had sought. She was 'indifferent as the breeze, 5 and 
ravished me with a bewitching smile. That woman 
fastened a potent charm around me, around my very heart. 
,She fixed herself there, and I thought she would dwell 



44 T H E O A T II . 

forever. I strove to wrench her from me, but I could not 
— she was too lovely. Were it not for her levity, I might 
have hated her. But I could not tear her from me. I 
thought, and was really persuaded, that she was the one 
with whom I had determined to associate. I saw in her, 
intellect, genius — every thing I desired. I loved her — 
she was one who seemed fitted to change a dungeon to a 
paradise. She was all but immortal to the sight, and all 
but a fairy in her joyousness. She met me with her love; 
and as the tender vine clings to the dark and stately tree, 
so did she cling to my bosom, and place her hopes in my 
affections. But though we embraced each other with all 
the ardor of affection, how different to each other in 
constitution ! 

Before I took her wholly to myself, I waited for the 
assurance that she was in reality what I wished her. I 
looked carefully — found her intellectual, and was satis- 
fied. I loved her, and I feared I was deceived into this 
belief ; and I alternately distrusted and believed, until I 
was fully satisfied that she would be a blessing to me, 
and then she became the partner of my solitude ! 

My books were now the chief objects of attention, for 
the vow did not once recur to me; I thought myself free 
from its obligation — I had accomplished what I deter- 
mined, and having much to do with a great work I was 
planning, she was driven almost from my thoughts: amid 
my many schemes of ambition she was placed, but was a 
dim star in comparison to others which attracted me. I 
gradually became forgetful of her, for ambition was dis- 
playing its great and rare sights to its proud votary. I was 
conceiving ideas to accomplish the work I had planned. 
I determined to forget her, and bade her remain in the 
precincts of her own apartment, till the business in which 
I was engaged should be completed. Obedient as she 



THE OATH. 45 

always had been, she loved me too well to heed my com- 
mand, but continued by my side, bestowing those little 
attentions which she so much delighted to administer. — 
But during the time I had forsaken and neglected her, 
she had faded much ; her look was consumptive ; the 
symmetry of her form and the buoyancy of her spirits had 
vanished; and when my work was nearly finished, and I 
returned to her society, I noticed the change, and op- 
pressed with grief returned to my study, when another 
sight appeared — the blazing characters — the oath — oh, 
let me not think of it ! But, no, I cannot forget it. — 
Eternity itself will never obliterate from my mind the 
unwonted, the dazzling brilliancy of those fated charac- 
ters. The cloud which had hitherto involved my reason, 
was dispelled. The force of my obligation returned — 
and I determined to obey its mandate — though now too 
late. With a mind fully resolved to put in execution its 
fell purpose, I entered the apartment which I had just 
left. My eager eye was fixed on my wife, as she sat in 
all the loveliness of grief — I scanned every feature — 
and methought I penetrated to the very sanctuary of her 
heart. But still my opinion was unchanged. I still 
thought that she was the same lovely, intellectual being I 
had first supposed her. I looked again — oh, that look, 
that piercing, searching look — then it was that I doubt- 
ed; another look — again I doubted — doubted, and saw 
nothing but a woman ! c Oh God, 5 was my passionate 
exclamation, c would that the oath had never been regis- 
tered in heaven's chancery ! would that I could die ! 
But ah ! ambition thou idol of my soul, I cannot give thee 
up ; where is my fame? — the world does not know me — 
I must not die ! ' The oath tormented me, and I was 
obliged to put in execution its demands. I called my 
wife; she answered me in her endearing accents, and I 



46 MORNING. 

continued: c Ambition is a demon — Beauty a cloak to 
foolishness — Happiness a tantalizer — Life a curse — 
Death a blessing ! ' She spoke not a word. 

I took the opiate I had prepared, and gave it to her ; 
she slept like one dead. I opened a vein in her arm, and 
she bled — bled to death ! My vow was finished, and I 
buried her in the cold, damp earth. The characters of 
the oath have vanished, and I still live to hate the world, 
and be tormented, forever gazing on those other bloody 
characters which have taken their place — those hated 
two — Ambition — Murder ! 



MORNING. 



Morning ! sweet is thy music to my ear, 

While small birds carol on the green leafed trees, 
Or press with gentle breasts the stirring breeze, 

As they move onward in their wild career. 

O ! I could walk forever in this shade, 

And listen to sweet Nature's charming song, — 
But Life is short, and Time itself not long, 

And every thing on earth must quickly fade. 

Then should we think how soon we all must part, 
And quit this world where Pleasure seems to reign, 
But only seems — for life, all life is vain, 

Unless we have a holy, feeling heart ; 

Possessing this, to heaven we turn our eyes, 
And view a glorious life beyond the azure skies ! 



47 



A VISION, 



The moon was up in its arch of blue, 
And the evening star was bright ; 

And a thought came o'er my soul anew, 
As a star upon the night. 

I gazed on that evening star awhile, 

And it bound me like a spell ; 
And upon my brow was throned a smile, 

Till into my breast it fell. 

That evening star stood over the moon, 

Like a king upon his throne ; 
I thought a creed would resemble soon, 

The vision I saw alone. 

I gazed — the crescent sank in the wave, 

And the star was far on high ; 
I thought that the flood that shape would lave 

As it left the smiling sky. 

The moral came ; Mahmud's creed will be 

Like that crescent in the wave ; 
It will sink away — and men will see 

That Bethlehem's star must save. 



48 



THE WILLOW AND THE STREAM. 



A willow hung with its silver, tassel-like leaves, over 
a beautiful stream that mirrored it with accuracy and 
distinctness. c Ho ! ho ! ' said the stream one morning, 
'you need not throw your tassels in my face — there is 
no demand for them, I can assure you.' c You need not 
be alarmed,' said the willow, 'you must bear them now ; 
but by and bye I shall have none to annoy you with.' c I 
wish you had not now,' said the stream, ' I detest your 
practices.' s I do not complain,' said the willow, c when 
your face is ruffled so that I cannot see myself. I 
acknowledge and reverence the wind-god, whose power 
both plucks the tassels from my arms and wrinkles your 
face, and I am willing to have my pleasure taken from 
me when it does not appear to be done by you, but by the 
powerful wind-god.' The stream aware that it was not 
the willow's fault, but that the inconvenience was caused 
by a power whom they both obeyed, murmured no 
more. 

Man is too apt to blame his neighbor for doing that 
which is the work of a superior existence, and by whose 
power he himself is controlled, but he will not always, 
like the stream cease to murmur and complain — he feels 
wiser than the Power which sustains and protects his 
life. 



49 



ON THE DEATH OF MISS J. E. VAIL. 



This is a simple tribute to the memory of a young lady, formerly a 
member of the Female Seminary, at Troy, N. Y. An obituary 
eulogium on her character and virtues, may be found in Mrs. E, 
Willard's c Appeal in favor of Female Education. 5 

The pall has wrapped the dead, 

The beautiful and gay, 
The heart we loved, has fled 

From each of us, away ! 
The sorrowing tear must fall, 

The gay of earth must mourn, 
When yon green mound seems all 

To which a friend can turn. 

Like to the budding rose, 

Whose petals when they 're blown, 
Seek on the earth repose, 

The perfume upward flown ; 
Thus, has the loved one gone, 

Up to the realms of God, 
Whose mind too brightly shone 

To dwell on Earth's dull sod. 

She has not fled. She 5 s here 

Still folded in each breast, 
Though hymning in God's sphere, 

Among the immortal blest — 

5 



50 EVENING. 

The blest — who have passed away 
From this low, syren earth, 

Each soul, like some bright day, 
Fled almost at its birth. 

As on her upward flight, 

To that bright land above, — 
Where all is shadowless light, 

And all unwavering love, — 
She passed — her spirit said 

To each of us, ' Prepare ! * 
And now that she has fled, — 

Her mantle who shall wear ? 



EVENING. 

O ! what a wakefulness an eve like this, 

Brings to my senses ! hallowing each thought, 
As from an angel's ruby lip 't were caught, 

Whispering the soul a secret of its bliss : 

Bestowing joy which few below can know, 
Like some clear vision in a pleasant dream, 
Which comes upon the mind quick as a gleam, 

Yon bargemen lightly from each oar-blade throw. 

Sweet, is the eve, when sinks the moon so fair, 
And banner-like is spread the pall of night, 
Gathering each floating ray of wandering light, 

As earth the dews now hovering in the air. 
On such an eve can man but holy- be, 
When from this earth, great God, he looks to thee ? 



51 



EPISODE 

OF THE SECOND BOOK OF OSSIAN'S FINGAL 

TURNED INTO IRREGULAR VERSE. 

Where drank the deer of a thousand streams, 
Whose waters sparkled with silvery gleams; 
Where a hundred hills, now far, now near, 
Echoed with a thousand voices clear, 
When the chase-dogs freely roved about, 
And up through the hills their cries sent out, 
Comal dwelt, whose soft eye was like dew, 
While youthful mildness his face shone through ; 
Whose hand was love to a maiden's hand, 
But death in fight when he seized the brand. 

One maid was his love, and she was fair, 
With a native beauty rich and rare ; — 
Like a sunbeam did each feature illume, 
Her hair was black as the raven's plume — 
On Comal her soul was fixed intent, 
And their mutual eyes in love were blent. 
Her bow-string hummed beneath the sun, 
Their course in the chase was ever one, 
And the quiver that hung at Comal's back, 
Rattled as he gave the dogs his track — - 
But Comal, chief of a hundred hills, 
Encircled by a thousand leaping rills, 



EPISODE. 

Was toe to Grumal, who sought the maid, 
Grumal, the dark ehief of Ardvei/s grade; 
Grumal, who watched on each hill and plain. 
The love of Galbina's soul to gain ! 

When the mists, one day, had hid the band, 
Which roamed the hills at Comal's command, 
Galbina and Comal met in the cave. 
Whose entrance was washed by Ronai/s wave : 
Its sides with ijlitterinor arms were hung, 
And when winds blew, with a din they rung. 
And a hundred shields of thongs were there. 
And a hundred helms with crests of hair. 
And the sounding steel of the helms, shone 
Like inlaid silver on every stone. 

• Rest here/ said Comal, * till I throw 
Tk adown from Mora's brow. 

Rest here ! thou light of Ronai/s cave. 
No one will here such danger brave, 
I go — but I will soon return/ 

* I fear,' she said, ' with fear I burn, 
But I will rest among these arms. 
And hush all unprovoked alarms. 
But soon return, my love, to me ! 

r Grumal haunts each grove and tree/ 
He went for the deer on Mora's brow — 
Ah, what is the maiden doing now ? 
Her form sed by an armor bright, 

from the cave — her heart is light. 
For her Comal's faith she e'en would try. 
Would see the glance of her lover's eye ! 
Comal beheld, and thought her his foe — 

le arrow flew as he drew the bow. 
Galbina fell in her purple gore. 



EPISODE. 53 

She fell on the shining, sounding shore. 
Wild with joy, Comal ran to the cave, 
And called for the maid he tried to save. 

1 Where art thou, oh my love, oh where ? ' 
And Echo only answered him there. 
He fled the cave, and at length he found, 
Her breast was beating the arrow round. 
' Oh Galbina, and was it thou 
The arrow struck from Mora's brow ? ' 
Down on the sand he fell by her side, 
Her life had gone with the purple tide, 
The hunters returned and found them there — 
Comal weeping with tears of despair. 
But soon the fleet of the ocean came, 
They fought and the strangers fell in shame, 
And no one could slay the strong of hand, 
Comal, chief of the hundred-hilled land. 
Then he hurled his dark brown shield away, 
And his dart found through his breast its way ; 
Now with his love on the sounding shore, 
Lies Comal near to the surges roar ; 
And sailors for two green graves look forth, 
When they bound on the rolling waves of the north. 



5# 



54 



ENGLISH BARDS. 

Samuel STaglot Colerttrjje, 

There is no one of the English Bards, if we except 
Southey, who makes us wonder so much, or one who 
stands out in so conspicuous a light, as the author of 
Genevieve, Christabel, and the Ancient Mariner. It has 
been the fortune, or rather misfortune of Coleridge, that 
he has turned his attention to politics. In his earlier 
years, he was an enthusiast in the Utopian schemes of 
his brother c Lakers, 5 and nothing had a charm which did 
not associate itself with the woods of America, happiness 
and liberty. Soon, however, the bright bubble, in which 
was painted every thing poetical and romantic, burst, and 
the scheme was abandoned as useless and visionary. It 
was at this time, that Coleridge paid much attention to 
poetry, besides writing much political matter. 

He has written several prose works of rare merit, and 
his ' Aids to Reflection,' and ' The Friend,' are works 
which every student should have on his table. He has 
also written much in the political newspapers, but which 
no one thinks of but himself, and it is said, he considers 
those ephemera the best portion of his works. 

The sentiments of Coleridge are mixed, and somewhat 
indefinite; and with his theology, politics and poetry, he 
may be considered the most remarkable genius of the 
age. His conversational powers are said to be the great- 
est of any man in England, and to this acquirement he 



ENGLISH BARDS. 55 

has sacrificed much, which would have been more lasting 
to his reputation. 

His greatest friend is Wordsworth, on the merits of 
whose writings he loves to dwell. Wordsworth in many 
respects is like him ; but Coleridge is more wild, and his 
thoughts more eagle like and untamed; still he can des- 
cribe the most pathetic sentiments, and in his own words, 
can fasten our attention^ 

E'en like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not w T e are listening to it. 

Or he can make us shudder and tremble, in describing 
the terrific scenes in his Ancient Mariner. 

Coleridge is now [1832] fifty-nine years old, and his 
hair is white ; — in body he is large ; his face is. full, and 
lighted up by an exquisite black eye. He is now living 
in the family of Mr Gilman, of Highgate, England, to 
whom his ' Friend ' is dedicated ; ' a friendly family,' 
says one of his contemporaries, c who have sense and 
kindness enough to know that they do themselves an 
honor by looking after the comfort of such a man. His 
room looks upon a delicious prospect of wood and mead- 
ow, with colored gardens under the window, like an 
embroidery to the mantle. Here he cultivates his flowers, 
and has a set of birds for his pensioners, who come to 
breakfast with him. He may be seen taking his daily 
stroll up and down, with his black coat and white locks, 
and a book in his hand. His main occupation is reading.' 

We have said that Coleridge is a wonderful genius. 
He is — whether we observe him as a mere man, or 
whether we look upon him as a literary character. His 
mind is great and capacious, and though he has been 
censured for his indolence — it can only be indolence as 
respects his physical powers. His mind forms a perpetual 



5(5 ENGLISH BARDS. 

motion of thought; — sleeping or waking, it is exercised, 
and he has actually composed a poem while sleeping, a 
part of which he was able to transcribe. It is to be 
lamented, that one who could take his place in the highest 
hierarchy of poets, should content himself with scribbling 
opinions on the unsettled notions of politics — should 
degrade his genius for poetry, and deprive the world of 
the conceptions of a mind which might have been and 
may still be, the admiration of future ages. 

William OTor&stoortJ). 

The machinery of a watch, without a dial-plate, is of 
little value ; and so also, is an article on Wordsworth's 
writings, which is destitute of an explanation or definition 
of the term Lake Poetry. What poetry is, all know or 
pretend to know; but to be ignorant of the true meaning 
of Lake Poetry, exhibits to most men no great deficiency 
of discrimination. They who have often made use of 
the word, show their ignorance of its meaning. Our 
definition of the term is, that it is the style of poetry 
which necessarily followed a new versification; for all its 
characteristics seem to arise from this fact, and not from 
any affected love either of solitude or of nature, in the 
authors. The versification of the Lakers is not very reg- 
ular, and permits one line to run into another, thus giv- 
ing thought an untrammeled freedom. The frequent use 
of blank verse and banishment of rhyme, assist much the 
power of expression. They take not two lines to express 
what might be expressed in one. Their verses are not 
mechanical. This new style of poetry has not only 
threatened to put out of existence the polished lines of 
Pope, but has partly put the threat into execution. Such 
men as Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey — who, by 



ENGLISH BARDS. 57 

the way, were the founders of the school, and delighted 
to dwell near the lakes of Cumberland, whence the epi- 
thet Lake — foresaw the evils which was about to result, 
and observing the fetters which had often bound the wings 
of genius, with a laudable energy broke the bands of cus- 
tom, and rose against all barriers with an irresistible 
power. 

Wordsworth has been accused of an affected love of 
nature. This we believe to be an unfounded accusation. 
His writings teach us otherwise; and the assertion came 
from those who with one breath declare they have no 
relish for his poetry, and in the next pour forth an analysis 
of his writings ! Any person who may read his works, 
will readily discover the falsity of the assertion. His 
love of nature is an intense and burning passion — it 
carries him along with it, and he is so far from being 
affected himself, that he never describes any thing affected 
by others. ' Passages come to view on every page in his 
volumes, of which the spirit goes down into the stillest 
depths of the soul ; and touches of exquisite tenderness 
are scattered abundantly with such simplicity and free- 
dom, that they seem as if they had dropped unconsciously 
from the author in the pursuit of his silent musings.' 

From Wordsworth we expect not the same style, the 
same subject or the same usage of a subject, that we 
should from a practical man. If he were a banker like 
Rogers, an enterprising editor like Campbell, or a man of 
the world, a street-walker in London, we might reasona- 
bly expect that he should write differently; but never 
while in retirement, while his mind is looking alternately 
upon itself and the objects of nature. 

The influence of his writings is of the purest and most 
touching kind. It is not the poetry of sounds, of mellow 
verse merely, but that of sentiment. It does not rouse 



58 ENGLISH BARDS. 

us like the energetic war strains of Campbell, nor does it 
throw a veil of melancholy over us; but it steals with an 
imperceptible movement to the heart, not only charming 
us, but improving our natures, raising us by its descrip- 
tions of truth to the contemplation of ourselves as moral 
and intellectual beings — beings but little lower than the 
angels. With the feelings of his own heart, and the 
emotions of his own mind, he clothes the object of his 
perception. To ordinary observers he appears a lover 
of mysticisms ; but to one who studies him, a spirit of 
grace, and beauty and purity. A congenial reader is to 
his poetry what fire is to the taper — it lights it up and 
shows its power and worth. To a man of no thought, he 
is a stumbling block ; but to one who is pleased to analyze 
the mind, and looks below the surface of things, he is the 
charming and divine poet of the age. His writings, 
judged by a comparison with Pope's, are nonsense and 
mysticism; but judged by one whose mind is somewhat 
constituted like his own, they not only appear, but in 
reality are, the divine essence of poetry. By great 
study a man of ordinary capacity could make himself equal 
to Pope ; but a man must be of superior intellect and 
untiring exertion who would write like Wordsworth. The 
description of surfaces — of manners and fashions, is not 
the true creating spirit of poetry; and although we may 
admire the smooth verses of the French school, at the 
same time the mind is not satisfied; we receive pleasure, 
it is true, but it is a pleasure without any real enjoyment. 
Wordsworth understands how to excite the sympathies of 
man; he knows that every breast is affected by certain 
objects; he knows how to paint those objects, and how to 
give them motion, and life and power* 

His longest and one of his most exquisite poems is The 
Excursion, which has met with much unmerited censure. 



ENGLISH BARDS. 59 

It has faults we are aware, as well as many other of his 
pieces; but as a whole it is one of the finest poems which 
the age has produced. Concerning the faults of Words- 
worth's poetry, we have said nothing. He has had much 
to contend against, and critics in general are more prone 
to look to his faults than to his beauties and perfections. 
For this simple reason we shall be silent on the subject. 
And in this place we hesitate not to say to him who has no 
relish for poetry in general, that if he will peruse a few of 
the smaller poems of this author, even carelessly, he will 
find that they will afford a freshness of desire for reading 
poetry, which no other author's writings create. There is 
in his poetry so much affectionate simplicity, he is so 
unaffected, so true to nature and his own feelings, that 
we are compelled, though we would not, to love and even 
to wonder and adore. 

Wordsworth has given a new power to poetry, and has 
struck into a region untraversed and hitherto disregarded. 
He has opened to the view new scenes, given a new 
power to association, and bound us by a charm to his 
bosom. Much he has had to contend with, but he has 
defended himself, although he once came near being a 
martyr to his cause. But he lives, and will live in the 
hearts not only of his countrymen, but in those of the 
world. His name blazes now, however, with but little 
of that brilliancy which is hereafter to make him conspic- 
uous, which will shine in the zenith of the literary world 
with that other constellation which every one knows to 
bear the name of Shakspeare. 



60 ENGLISH BARDS 



2&ofeert «Soittj)e#» 



The laureate of England, Eobert Southey, by his 
poetical writings, has obtained a considerable degree of 
praise as a man of genius ; and for his political conduct 
and opinions, a more than equivalent quantity of censure. 
His political tenets we shall dismiss from consideration, 
by remarking, that at the commencement of his career, 
he was a stern and powerful advocate for the principles of 
unlimited freedom, and was the leader of those visionaries 
who formed an imaginary state in America, planned on 
these principles. For several years past, however, he has 
proceeded on his course, entirely contrary to those opin- 
ions in which he was formerly a mad enthusiast. Whether 
this most remarkable abandonment has resulted from 
discouragement, or from a candid belief of the futility of 
such doctrines, we cannot pretend to decide ; nor would 
it be our province to do so, if we were able. 

In our notice of Coleridge, we said, that there is no one 
who stands out in so conspicuous a light as he, Southey 
excepted. In making that remark, we did not intend even 
to hint that there is a similarity in the construction of their 
minds. Coleridge is conspicuous for his singularity and 
boldness of thought, for the deep working of his mind, 
and for his metaphysical subleties ; Southey, on the other 
hand, is conspicuous for boldness of fancy, both in con- 
ceiving and describing. He reminds us of an old master 
of painting, with a brilliant imagination, placing on the 
canvas, fresh, vivid and glowing colors; — striving not 
solely to represent scenes as found in nature, but endeav- 
oring to create something prettier, or more attractive, or 
if possible, more startling; — occasionally, however, pro- 
ducing scenes which exhibit much truth in the delineation. 



ENGLISH BARDS. gj 

He struggles for boldness and originality, but often rises 
into extravagance ; like an ambitious, though ignorant 
actor, who strives to explain anew, or impress upon the 
mind more powerfully, some favorite passage in an old 
dramatist. The mass of readers, Southey can never 
please. He is too turgid and bombastic ; and we may 
perhaps be allowed to say that he uses too many hard 
words. We have heard of some persons studying the 
lexicon for such knowledge, and we should suppose South- 
ey one of these very same expert dictionary-hunters. 
There is a vast deal in his poetical compositions, which is 
nothing but sound — mere rhetoric, sometimes so artfully 
interwoven, that one at first might suppose he discovers 
gems, when he sees nothing but polished glass. His 
poetical writings, in invention and description, are essen- 
tially dramatic. Tinsel; rough paintings, looking well at 
a distance ; the wild and wonderful; lurid and vivid flames ; 
bustle and incident, are the most striking characteristics 
of the larger pieces of his composition. 

He is evidently a great admirer of Milton. In some 
passages and descriptions, he has attempted by an unlucky 
ambition, to describe, with that felicity which so charac- 
terizes the writings of the immortal bard, the appearance 
of the World of Woe. These descriptions, however, do 
not rise into that grandeur which pervades the conceptions 
and delineations of Milton, — they are palpably affected 
and catachrestical. One great, and indeed the greatest 
fault — the foundation of a multitude of others — is the 
apparent desire to combine fancy, sublimity, and other 
powerful qualities, in one poem; thereby rendering it, as 
a whole, exceedingly mixed, confused, and repulsive. He 
is the only living poet, of the present age, to whose eye 
may emphatically be applied the sentiment, glancing from 

heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. He grasps at 
6 



62 ENGLISH BAR D^S. 

every thing which tends to allure, and, in spite of reality, 
creates startling and even painful pictures. Yet, with all 
his extravagancies, with all his wildness of thought, and 
wonder-working invention, he never forgets — intention- 
ally at least — that the great object of poetry is to impress 
on the attention of readers the pleasures and benefits of 
morality and religion. Concerning the prose works of 
Southey we have little to say, except that they exhibit 
splendid specimens of English composition. Taking his 
prose and poetry together, we find that he has endeavored 
to do too much; — on this account he has heaped before 
the public a mass of matter, which is little better than 
useless lumber. He forgets, as it seems, that a man is 
generally best known by a single work, and that too by a 
very short one. He seems to imagine that he will be im- 
mortal on account of his size — not for his peculiar excel- 
lence. How disappointed must he be even now, in his 
expectations ! There is not one of his poems, which is 
noted more than another ; and although he is so excess- 
ively voluminous, there are many persons of tolerable 
information, who, if asked, could not tell whether he 
writes most like himself, or like Pope. 

We have thus far considered Southey 's writings, judg- 
ing from prominent faults. Were we to dismiss this 
article without giving him some credit, it might appear 
that we write with prejudice. Not so ; on the contrary 
we have often regretted, and very seriously too, that one 
who has displayed such remarkable powers of invention 
should be so deficient in other most important requisites. 
In picturing the severer passions, he displays an inti- 
mate knowledge of the heart. Descriptions are intro- 
duced in his poem of i Roderick,' which of themselves 
would stamp him as the master genius of the age. The 
conflicting passions — their power and effect — are thrown 



ENGLISH BARDS. £3 

into a seeming existence, and the most intense interest 
often enchains one for a comparatively long time. Still 
the poem is unequal, and unfitted for readers in general. 
The passages, as passages, and choice extracts, are often 
eminently elegant and sublime ; but there is not one 
person in a thousand who would read through the poem 
— these passages, therefore, are not discovered; conse- 
quently his fame as a poet must be much restricted. 
Perhaps if he had written only the stanzas ' To the Holly 
Tree ' — about fifty lines — he would have acquired as 
much real fame as he has from writing half a million of 
verses. 

The c Curse of Kehama ' is a work of considerable 
power, arising perhaps principally from the interest exist- 
ing in respect to all mythology, and particularly to that 
singular system peculiar to the Hindoos. This poem, if 
we recollect aright, is in rhyme, and the measure is simi- 
lar to the studied Pindarics of Cowley. It contains pas- 
sages which would be extremely beautiful, finished and 
elegant, were it not that something or other arises, in the 
shape of a note, three or four pages in length, by way of 
explanation. The c Curse of Kehama ' is replete with 
the usual extravagancies of the author; indeed, the foun- 
dation of the poem, the Hindoo mythology, is all extrav- 
agance. These extravagances, however, are not quite 
so ridiculous as many which may be found in that most 
ridiculous of all poems of the present age, namely, c The 
Vision of Judgment.' ' Madoc ' is another tremendous 
poem, full of human adventures and natural difficulties. 
This poem, too, has its machinery, and on the whole is 
superior to the 'Kehama' — and that, perhaps, is not 
saying a great deal. c Joan of Arc,' in respect to its 
machinery, is preferable to the last mentioned ; but we 



64 ENGLISH BARDS. 

should very much question whether it cost half the labor 
of either of the other two. 

Several other poetical works ought perhaps to be par- 
ticularly noticed here; but we forbear, and would refer 
our readers who are desirous of obtaining a more discrim- 
inate knowledge of his works, to them, and also to the 
British Reviews. Nevertheless, it may be well to caution 
every one against trusting too much to the reviews in the 
London Quarterly. The articles which there notice 
Southey's works, are the most uncritical and flattering 
notices we ever perused ; and the smooth, unbroken vein 
of adulation coursing through nearly all of them, disgrace 
the Review, their authors, and the laureate himself. 

Southey has been classed among the Lake Poets, and 
rightly, too; — indeed, he was at the head of them in the 
dream, called ' Pantisocracy ' — that famous scheme for 
political regeneration. However, his writings prove that 
which we asserted in our notice of Wordsworth, namely, 
that Lake Poetry does not consist so much in the matter 
as in the manner. Metaphysical subtlety is not the foun- 
dation of it ; — if so, Southey should never have been 
classed among the Lakers, for he does not meddle with 
the operations of the mind, but with the virtues of the 
heart. Southey, as a poet, can never be immortal, but 
will be known best by the place he fills in the library. 
His talents may be acknowledged; but it will be mere 
passive praise which speaks of him ; he will live perhaps 
for a while, but will be esteemed rather as a man of effort, 
than of genius. 



65 



HOURS OF CHILDHOOD. 

ACCORDING TO THE THEORY OF WORDSWORTH. 

The hours of childhood ! — where are they ? 

Gone! — like the gleams of light, 
Or, as the stars that shoot away, 

Down through the deep of night : 
Yes, they have fled, yet ever seem, 

When memory leads us back, 
The recollections of a dream, 

Like sparks in a meteor's track. 

How many things we used to do ! 

Upon the ice we slid, 
And scratched it with the bright nailed shoe 

When we to school were bid. 
We made the snow-ball round and nice, 

And hurled it at our friend, 
Or threw him down upon the ice 

Which 'neath our feet did bend. 

We laughed outright upon our mate, 

When on the ice he came ! 
And smiled to see him rub his pate, 

Or limp a little lame. 
Fine sports were these — in Winter, too, 

When snow was on the ground, 

And cold winds o'er the country blew, 

With drear and moaning sound. 
6* 



6G HOURS OF CHILDHOOD. 

In Spring, forth to the woods we went, 

And watched the small-birds build, 
And gazed with little minds intent, 

Till with ambition filled. 
Once looking with a gentle stare, 

Into our playmate's eye, 
We laughed to see so painted there 

Our own identity. 

When summer came with breezes fair, 

We made our paper kite, 
And strove to raise it in the air, 

Its monstrous weight in spite; 
We tumbled down upon the ground, 

And struck our little knee — 
Though pained we jumped up safe and sound. 

And danced right merrily. 

When Autumn came, with cheek quite brown. 

Upon the boughs we sat, 
And threw the good red apples down 

Into our comrade's hat; — 
And as we tried adown to come, 

Out of the apple tree, 
Our little limbs did tremble some, 

With all our bravery. 

The hours of childhood now have fled, 

As bright stars erst they came, 
And round our younger years they shed 

A pure and holy flame. 
But they must pass, as all must know ; 

Their joys are sweet, yet weak, — 
They come as quick, as quick they go, 

As dimples on the cheek. 



67 



FROM THE GREEK. 

REASONS FOR DRINKING. 

The black earth, often drinks, you know, 
And all the pretty streams below, 
The seas, too, drink from little streams, 
The sun from seas with his bright beams ; 
The moon drinks light from off the sun, 
And all things drink we look upon, 
Then, friends, why should you thus contend, 
Because I wish to be their friend ? 



REASONS FOR KISSING. 

IMITATION. 

The breezes kiss the fragrant flowers, 
The flowers kiss the fragrant wind ; 

The vines, too, kiss the loveliest bowers, 
And bowers kiss the vines which bind. 

The mountains kiss the silver sky, 
Clouds of silver kiss the mounts ; 

The fountains kiss the waters nigh, 
Waters kiss the lovely founts. 

If Sara's lip I dare to kiss, 
Lovely Sara dares kiss mine; 

Is there no reason, friends, for this, 
When for kisses all things pine ? 



68 



PORTRAIT PAINTING. 

It is a consolingly beautiful reflection that though 
there are many casualties and chances which separate our 
friends from us, and bear them away from the scenes in 
which they have been accustomed to mingle, —man has 
been provided by the beneficent hand of his Creator, 
with a power of talent and genius to animate the marble 
and the canvas, and to present upon them those fine, and 
divine, and magical marks which cause to rise before us 
the appearances of the forms, and the semblances of the 
features of our friends and relatives ; at the same time 
awakening that spirit — association — whose ministry is 
to summon before us, in the most perfected attitudes of 
beauty, all those sympathies, and charities, and kind- 
nesses, and beloved traits in the character, which fasten 
us to our fellow men, by the strongest and yei the most 
tender bonds of attachment. In vain, the misfortunes 
incident to our existence tear away from our bosoms the 
young, and the loved, and the beautiful. In vain, the 
grinding hand of stern Poverty wears down and removes 
out of our presence the struggling yet the industrious 
and the respected. In vain, Disease and the wasting 
Consumption lead down through the chambers of the 
Future — whence there are no tidings in this life, those 
who have nursed us in our infancy, and supported us 
through the dangers of our youth, and watched over us 
with paternal anxiety in the opening days of our manhood. 
— This divinely bestowed power of talent and genius 
shrivels the distances of Time into a point and triumphs 
over Death itself ! 



PORTRAIT PAINTING. (59 

What an important consideration is it then that this 
power should be cultivated — that its cultivators should 
be encouraged and that their encouragement should be 
commensurate with the degree of their talent, and the 
steadiness of their application. Who that prizes the 
company of a friend would not wish, before it is too late, 
— before sickness has changed the features from their 
accustomed loveliness, to have the face of that friend 
transferred to the canvas ? What parent would not de- 
sire, knowing, as we all must know, that the ills and acci- 
dents of life are many, to behold the features of his 
beloved children fixed on a durable and almost unchange- 
able material ? What son or what daughter suspecting, 
as it is our lot, and as a reasonable inference leads us to 
suspect, that parents cannot long linger in this world, 
would not desire to own the accurate presentments of 
those earthly guardians of his existence ! Nay, what 
son or what daughter is there, who should not be fearful, 
lest the disabled frame and the silver-haired head, of his 
departed parents, uncopied and needlessly neglected, be 
laid, coffined and hidden, in the dust ? Does any one 
think that he will retain the countenances of his friends 
in his memory ? Let those who have cherished the same 
thought, and who have seen and repented of their neg- 
lect at too late a period, give back an answer of caution. 
Let the preciousness which portraits possess, and the 
esteem with which they are preserved, tell how extensive, 
and enduring, and many are the sources of enjoyment, 
derived from a correct representation of a friend, of a 
relative, of a brother, or sister, or of a parent; — and let 
all profit by their knowledge, and secure to themselves 
the benefit — -the immeasurable benefit, to be derived 
from a single piece of the heavenly art of portrait paint- 
ing. 



70 



MALEENA. 

A STORY OF THE INDIANS. 

The light of the Great Spirit was retiring to rest be- 
neath the waves. The red man beheld the lustre that 
played over the foliage of the forest trees, and joy arose 
in his heart, for he was happy. He had not then been 
duped by the hypocritic smiles of the pale faces, nor had 
his ear been pierced by the thunder of their fire-weapons. 
By no heartlessness and treachery, had the wigwam been 
burned; — by no inhuman recklessness had his wife and 
children been murdered. The land of his fathers descend- 
ed to him by the right of nature, and he worshipped the 
Great Spirit without fear or molestation. The fire in the 
eyes of the red man had not then been extinguished ; his 
limbs were not enfeebled by the fire-water of the white 
man ; his heart was not sick with sad and continual 
remembrances of his wrongs. It was the Unknown Land 
in which he dwelt, and even tradition had not informed 
him of other men and other countries. 

It was twilight, and darkness was chasing the particles 
of light that lingered over the Indian village to their thou- 
sand homes — the stars ! On a mat before the wigwam, 
sat Ontwa; — his dark-eyed sister, beside him, orna- 
mented with shells, a deer-skin moccasin; and the father, 
Ruchanah, gazed with the thoughtfulness of age on the 
sunset scene. The spirit of silence succeeded the de- 
parture of the sun, and the village was scarcely disturbed 
by a murmur. Each Indian courted the breeze before 



MALEENA. 7 J 

his cabin, or approached his neighbor with the smile of 
peace on his lip. The hunters who had departed a few 
days before in search of buffaloes, had not yet come back, 
and the old chiefs and daughters were waiting anxiously 
their return, for the morrow was to bring a festival. 

The maidens were now looking toward the mountains 
for the signal blaze ; but it was not until the anxious eyes 
had some of them drooped, that the fire was kindled. 
The light was intensely brilliant, and the maidens looked 
inquiringly for those who most concerned their feelings; 
and when the blaze on the mountain flickered, the song 
of joy was commenced, and continued for a long time, 
At length, a shout announced the arrival of the hunters 
at the village grounds. Various demonstrations of joy 
were visible among the fairer inhabitants, as the young 
men approached; and the old men with that stoical indif- 
ference which is so marked a feature in the Indian char- 
acter, listened to the account of the captures, and, though 
betraying not the least emotion, were no doubt exceed- 
ingly gratified at the result cf the expedition. 

The hunters soon deposited the captured buffaloes in 
secure places, and then departed to their respective wig- 
wams. By this time the moon had made considerable 
progress in her course up the unclouded sky, and lighted 
the village so that every movement could distinctly be 
discovered. The young men having taken their evening 
meal, with their pipes smoking, could be seen advancing 
one after another to the wigwams which contained the 
fair ones of their choice. Ontwa left his sister and 
departed to see his chosen one, and Taroonah, an adopted 
son of the chief of the tribe, entered the cabin as Ontwa 
departed. In a village never beheld by any beings but 
red men — in a hut formed and fashioned by the savage — 
in a wilderness, where no ray of the divine light of civili- 



72 MALEENA. 

zation ever entered, imagine a young girl of seventeeii 
summers ! Her eyes, full, free and enchanting, her fea- 
tures regular, and her whole appearance as exquisite and 
beautiful as the pencil of imagination can picture. Her 
education bestowed upon her by custom and nature ; her 
only knowledge to love and obey the lord of creation; 
her God the great and invisible spirit, whose eye unseen, 
sees; whose ear hears all things uttered ; whose hand 
directs her feet in their every movement, and whose 
power destroys the workings of the evil one. Imagine a 
being, too, with a heart as susceptible of hope and fear, 
of love and pain, and one withal as pure and unpolluted, 
as a being could be whose heart had loved only one ob- 
ject, and whose soul had worshipped only the guardian 
God of the Indians. 

Maleena was seated on a mat in the wigwam, and as 
Taroonah entered he noticed a gloomy countenance 
where he expected to find a cheerful one. He wondered 
much that she did not do more than extinguish the fire in 
his pipe — the customary Indian method of introducing a 
warm and social talk — he wondered, too, at the loss of 
her wonted gaiety and sprightliness, and painful emotions 
harassed the breast of Taroonah, and he was obliged to 
give his deep feelings utterance. 

c Why does the shadow of the dark hemlock fall over 
Taroonah's love ? Is the heart of Maleena sad ? Ma- 
leena is not forgetful of the Black Plume ? ' 

At this last inquiry, Maleena started, and pressing 
back with her hands the long hair which partially veiled 
her face, she looked seriously upon her lover ; for she 
well remembered that the black plume had been given to 
him for his bravery, when he was adopted son of the chief, 
— and she was far from wishing to look gloomy when she 
remembered the bravest youth of the tribe was with her. 



MALEENA. 73 

1 Hast heard the wolf howl to-night ? ' inquired Ma- 
leena. 

v ■ No ! love,' answered he, ' what shakes the faith of 
the maiden ? ' It was now that Maleena was still more 
sensibly awakened to her situation, and she told what 
pressed so heavily upon her spirits. 

( Taroonah ! the dark spirit of my dreams has haunted 
here to-night. The departed, traitorous rival, Sakamas, 
has been in my presence like a dream; — his face has 
been skulking into the cabin, and a cloud has passed over 
the sun of Maleena's words, for she has heard the step of 
some one near the hut — she has listened to the rattling 
of a quiver, and a serpent lies in the path of Taroonah 
and his love.' 

' Child ! fear not. The strong arm of Taroonah will 
strike away the arrow of harm ! Fear not ! Taroonah 
sits by the side of his Maleena, and the serpent dare not 
hiss before his feet, for fear.' 

The conversation continued for some time without 
much incident, when Taroonah, observing that Ontwa 
was returning from a distant part of the village, departed, 
after bidding farewell to Maleena. He had not gone far 
on his way, however, before a shrill cry of distress turned 
him back to the hut which he had just left. Quick as a 
bird flies to the nest of her young, when their cry is 
heard, so quick did Taroonah approach the wigwam of 
his love. As he entered, an Indian hurried out. Taroo- 
nah struck at him with a knife, but slipping on the damp 
grass, he fell, and was only able to wound the Indian on 
the ancle, which injured him so slightly that he was able 
to escape. 

Taroonah was raising his betrothed, whose neck exhib- 
ited the marks of a villain's hand, "when Ontwa rushed 
in, having heard the shriek, and with the fury of a tiger 



74 MALEENA. 

seized on Taroonah, who was perfectly silent; while the 
old man who had been awakened by the noise, summoning 
all his strength, approached the scene confused and dis- 
concerted — a scene, the whole of which transpired in a 
single moment. Maleena, with earnest ejaculations im- 
plored her brother to release her lover. No entreaties, 
however, prevailed, — he had received intimations that 
Taroonah had devised a hellish plot of wickedness, but 
till then he had given it no credence. Now, he was sat- 
isfied that the information, though mysteriously sent, was 
true; — and Taroonah was taken into custody by several 
Indians who had hastened to the spot, and was to wait till 
the morrow for the sequel of his fortune. 

As soon as Taroonah was taken away, Maleena en- 
deavored to explain the mystery ; but it was all in vain, 
her brother resolved to appeal to the Council; this was 
all that could satisfy the ardent temperament of a being 
w T hose love for his sister was intense, and who well knew 
the power of her beauty. In vain did she plead in the 
unsophisticated language of nature — in vain she endeav- 
ored to free the mind of Ontwa from the suspicion that 
Taroonah had formed the plot. It was all in vain, and 
the weeping Maleena waited anxiously for the dawn of 
the morrow. 

The gray light of the morning had given way to the 
bright light of the sun, when Ontwa called the Council, 
to decide upon the affair of the preceding night. The 
venerable old men heard all parties speak. Ontwa de- 
clared the situation in which he found his sister, and told 
of the information he had received. Ruchanah declared 
what he saw, and corroborated the statement of Ontwa ; 
and Maleena implored the Council to be lenient, alledging 
many reasons to defeat an unfavorable decision. Taroo- 
nah told the facts — but all was not sufficient for his 



MiLEENA. 75 

acquittal ; — he was condemned to be shot by six Indians. 
Thus was the bridal day to be converted into one of 
sorrow and disappointment. Maleena implored for a 
mitigation of the punishment, but the council had decided 
— their decision was imperative. 

Taroonah said nothing in extenuation, nothing in his own 
behalf. He felt that glow of pride and manliness which 
innocence ever feels when about to suffer ; and which 
with the Indians, in whatever circumstances, whether 
suffering under guilt or innocence, is ever considered 
daring and noble. The time for his execution had arrived; 
the executioners were ready, and many of the tribe were 
present. The Chief, who had adopted Taroonah, bowed 
down his head and his eyes closed with a consciousness of 
disgrace received. All blushed to think that the youth of 
the Black Plume was transformed into a base assassin. 
The arrows were chosen ; — Maleena stood near the tree 
to which her lover was bound ; she believed him innocent, 
and was watching every movement c-f the executioners, — 
and when they raised their bows, a shrill whoop rose be- 
yond the wigwams, and two or three Indians dragged 
forward the old rival Sakamas, who had traitorously 
deserted his tribe, and who had come the night before the 
festival, for the express purpose of murdering Maleena. 
His ancle was bound up with leaves, and thus was the 
whole affair illuminated. Instead of the noble Taroonah, 
Sakamas was bound to the tree, and suffered that punish- 
ment which had well nigh been the destruction of an 
innocent and brave youth. The festival was thus rendered 
happy to the Indian, and many a bridal-song was chaunted 
by the maidens, nor was that of Maleena and Taroonah 
less rapturously, for the circumstances which had preceded. 



76 



PAINTING, SCULPTURE AND POETRY. 



PAINTER. 



You spoke to me a few days since, my friend, when we 
were interrupted, of the superiority of Sculpture over 
Painting, and of the greater estimation in which it is held 
by the world in general. I was at that time speaking of 
the advantages of Painting over Sculpture, insomuch as 
figures can be executed more rapidly, and consequently in 
greater numbers. Besides, the various colors used by 
the painter have the power of giving the subject the 
appearance of nature, when in fact it is the mere creation 
of history or fancy. 



SCULPTOR. 



True. But then these creations have not that power 
over the beholder possessed by Sculpture. And why ? — 
the person who looks at a painting, immediately declares 
in ecstacies his admiration ; his eyes light up perhaps, 
with a glow of feeling, and he is inclined to break forth 
in the highest praises : but when he gazes upon the 
productions of the chisel he is struck dumb, he looks long 
and steadily upon the work, he scarcely conceives it to be 
the production of a mortal, and as he turns away he feels 
that he has not gazed upon it long enough to satisfy his 
desires. Besides, marble, when hewn into the human 
form, has an intense and holy power ; it bears with it 
sublimity, awe and reverence. I well remember the 
views expressed to me by a friend concerning the superi- 
ority of the art of sculpture over painting. On behold- 



PAINTIKG, sculpture, and poetry. 77 

ing, said this person, the statue of Washington, emotions 
were raised in my mind, not so much from the contempla- 
tion of the art, as by the massiveness, stateliness and 
dignity of the material: so far as the statue was a picture, 
no emotion ensued; but as substance standing before me, 
it awakened a thousand associations. Often had I looked 
upon the canvas where the godlike person was portrayed 
in the military equipage: but the trappings there displayed 
turned away the mind from the man, and did not awaken 
ideas of a great mind. It brought the feelings to bear 
upon the dangers and privations encountered and suffered 
in war; not that nobleness of the soul, that spiritual exis- 
tence, which breathes a holiness of divinity. And indeed 
wherever colors are used, it seems as if there were a 
lightness and a gaudy garniture; the canvas seems rather 
variegated to give pleasure than to excite feelings of 
nobleness and magnanimity. The canvas generally dis- 
plays the mutability of earthly things; marble, the depth 
and worth of that which is truly immortal. The fact that 
a greater number of figures can be produced by the pen- 
cil than the chisel in the same length of time, shows that 
the art is not so nice, nor yet so difficult in the acquisi- 
tion. But I own I have been heard with much deference; 
now let us hear the Poet decide. 

POET. 

I shall not pretend, my friends, to decide between the 
comparative merits of those arts in which you are res- 
pectively engaged. Both, I must confess, are in them- 
selves beautiful and worthy to be possessed ; neither of 
them in the abstract, however, possess the charms, the 
beauty, the celebrity, or the immortality of Poetry. Po- 
etry surpasses Painting, insomuch as it not only describes 
7* 



78 PAINTING, SCULPTURE, AND POETRY. 

the outer and physical appearance of man, but those more 
exalted and sublime qualities which exist in the soul. It 
affords to the painter, pictures; and all his paintings are 
the creations of the poet and the historian. 

PAINTER. 

But, friend, what a common art is Poetry ! Does not 
every person write poetry ? and is not this a proof that it 
is simple and easily acquired ? And is it not more com- 
mon to find more persons gifted as poets, than as paint- 
ers ? 



POET 



Ah ! you are sadly mistaken, dear sir. That every 
person should become a poet, or that even every thou- 
sandth one should, is impossible. If I should say to you 
that every person now-a-days could paint the side of a 
house, it would be no proof that every person could rep- 
resent the agonies and sufferings of a dying martyr. 
True poets are scarce. There are those indeed, who by 
their drapery of writing perhaps, may display some resem- 
blance to Poetry, but yet they are not gifted with the 
noble sentiments, the sublime imagery, the brilliant exe- 
cution which bards of genius possess. A chrystal can 
be compared to a diamond, yet not possess its beauties or 
other transcendant qualities. 



CULPTOE 



But does not Sculpture hold a higher rank than Poetry? 
Do not statues stand protected — are not productions of 
the chisel sought after eagerly — and are not the sums of 
money laid out for them immense ? And why do not peo- 



PAINTING, SCULPTURE, AND POETRY. 79 

pie purchase poems concerning heroes instead of pay- 
ing such enormous sums ? Does it not show the superi- 
ority of the art of Sculpture ? 

POET. 

By no means. The intention of people in purchasing 
a costly statue, is not so much to describe the qualities 
of the person represented, as to erect a monument to his 
memory, or to pay the debt of gratitude to his services 
and virtues; or perhaps to imitate in a degree the example 
of ancient nations. People do purchase poems, and 
always would, in preference to statues, if such poems 
described faithfully the heroes of the country. But per- 
haps that genius does not exist who can produce such a 
poem, and therefore the sculptor and the painter are 
called to perform the work. Another advantage of Poetry 
over the arts of Painting and Sculpture is, that a greater 
number of copies may be circulated ; there can be but 
one of marble, and that liable to crumble under the dilap- 
idating hand of time, or to be erased by the ruin of revo- 
lutions. Poetry is that which exists in the mind ; Paint- 
ing and Sculpture in the organs of vision and feeling. 
The forms created in painting are often the result of 
imagination, and a painter must necessarily be a poet, if 
he would produce any lively and original picture. Poetry 
can scarcely be defined. When genius truly exists, then 
Poetry is at its summit ; then expect ardor, intensity and 
fire — then see the passions rise — the intellect expand — 
the mind rush on its heavenward flight, and the whole 
soul, concentrated in thought, burst forth in spontaneous 
action. 



80 



THE IDIOT BOY. 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH 



JULIAN 



How joyously, my Ellen, do the waves 

Plash on those moon-gilt rocks, which shine afar ! 

How softly curl the eddies round their tops ! 

But ah, they shine not now as they were wont, 

When in the evenings of my boyish days, 

From home I strolled — not heeding time — listening 

To forest birds, whose wild, complaining notes 

Held with my thoughts a sweet acquaintanceship. 

Then through the weft of these low-whispering boughs, 

Which now the cool breeze haunts, would I look out 

Upon the silver sea, to catch the gleams 

Of yon low moon, disporting on the waves. — 

I kne\v nor pain, nor grief, nor sorrow, then ! 

The stars shone out and vivified my soul ; 

The music of the winds stole on my ear 

With dallying sweetness; — and e'en Nature's self, 

Far lovelier than the cloistered walls of home, 

Seemed to invite me to her holy shrines. 

But time and absence, sorrow and the world 

Have chilled my feelings since we parted last ; 

These scenes, unchanged themselves, are changed to me, 

And all is wrapped in solemn shades of gloom. 



ELLEN. 



Oh ! Julian, yield not thus to gloomy thoughts. 
See ! how the clouds are gilded by the moon, 



THE IDIOT BOY. 31 

Which sails in silence through the blue profound. 

That boatman's silvery oar-blade flashing out, 

Reminds me of a tale, told long ago 

By an old man, whose heart, indeed, was kind. 

It is a tale I had well-nigh forgot ; 

But list ! I '11 tell it thee. Dispel thy grief. 

JULIAN. 

I will not grieve ! but since my late return, 
Memory has been too busy with her scenes, — 
Casting dim phantoms on the mind's frail glass, 
Already darkened by the thronging crowd 
Which grey Experience has summoned there. 
Go on, sweet Ellen — tell the tale ! Go on ! 
And I will lend a close, attentive ear 
To what thou may'st relate. 

ELLEN. 

Well, well then 
I will relate the tale as it was told, 
Although I shall not give such feelings forth 
As that old man whose heart it strangely moved ; 
For he well knew and dearly loved the boy — 
Yes, loved him as a parent does his child, 
The youth of whom I speak — an idiot born — 
Was in the city nurtured, mid the noise, 
And pomp, and bustle of the gay and proud. 
In early childhood, often would he walk 
Hour after hour, the clattering streets along, 
And gather out with wanton industry 
The shining pebbles from the stone-paved streets : 
And these he placed within a little pouch 
Suspended on his breast. Such was the task 



g2 THE IDIOT BOY. 

Which daily he pursued; and when the rain 
Ceased pouring down, aside the stony street, 
In some slant groove where clear the waters passed, 
With joyous wonder he would bathe his feet, 
And smiling, gaze upon the leaping rill. 
And sometimes, too, he would retreat away 
In gentle haste, to shun the careless wheel 
Which swiftly passed close by his little feet, 
Then turn again unto his former place — 
Mocking the pigeons whom he so much loved, 
And whom he often fed with liberal hand. 
Oft too the scoffs of thoughtless men and boys 
Drove him away, in tears to weep alone. 

JULIAN. 

Had he no friends, to shield him from such fate ? 
No help-mate in his woe ? no hand of love, 
To free him from such boyish wantonness ? 

ELLEN. 

An aged mother was his broken staff, 
And she was daily moving toward the grave. 
'T is said, that when she died, he sat two nights 
And days, foodless, and watching by her side ; 
And when they buried her, he moaned in grief, 
And with his slender hands concealed his eyes, — 
Then to the country he was sent away 
By one who pitied him. And when, at first, 
He looked upon the woods and cottages, 
He wildly ran about ; and quick his eyes 
Sought out each simple thing with eagerness. 
But soon all mystery seemed cleared to him, 
So that he walked the beach to gather out 



THE IDIOT BOY. 33 

As was his habit in the city's streets, 

The polished shells and pebbles from the sand ; 

And sometimes on the pale, blue, watery deep 

He paddled in a miserable skiff. 

One night, when yon round moon had chased away 

All heaven's most beautiful stars, save one alone — 

That one, the evening star, thrice beautiful ! 

He sat, at rest upon his oar, and there gazed down 

Into the silent, chrystal deep below. 

Voiceless, awhile he gazed, as though he saw 

A brilliant gem, deep — deep, far down the sea. 

He plunged ! the waters rippled o'er his head, 

And all who ever knew the idiot boy, 

Say, that he saw reflected from the sky 

The Evening Star, and thought to grasp its form ! 

Perchance 't was so : to such it may be given 

After their death in that bright orb to dwell ! 



JULIAN 



Yes ! it were not strange that it should be so ! 
Perhaps each mind is destined for some star ; 
For they are worlds that swing in boundless space 
Unreachable, but through the gate of death. 
So thought philosophers in ages past, 
So may they think in ages yet to come ! 
But let that pass. It is a mystery 
Sealed from the eyes of mortals here below, 



ELLEN 



Oh, Julian, stars will one day fall from heaven 
Ah ! who will dwell in those ill-fated stars ? 



84 



TO CONNECTICUT RIVER. 

Not that thy banks are with rich verdure clad, 
Not that thy face inmirrors landscapes grand, 
Not that thou art the glory of the land. 

Not that thou kindlest eyes, too often sad, 

And givest emotions to the soul of him 
Who often wanders on thy sedgy side 
To mark the morals of thy life-like tide ! — 

Or bright-winged birds who through the blue sky skim 

Above thee far, as those freed souls which leave 
Their journeyings on the changeful stream of life, 
Soaring ! away from low, mean toils and strife, 

Their songs of freedom and of joy to weave, — 

No ! not for these I love thee, but that thou 
Declarest God ! before whom, and whose works, I bow. 



FROM THE GREEK. 

As on a bed of flowers I lay 
I seemed to hear the Tean say, 
6 Sleep on, my boy ! sleep on my boy ! 
Nor wake thee from thy dreams of joy.' 
Ah ! then I saw him, and I ran 
Up to the old but lovely man. 
About his neck, my arms I threw, 
And then my eyes met his pleased view 
I kissed his lips, all damp with wine, 
And he, the bard, in turn kissed mine. 



TOEARTH. 35 

And from his brow a wreath he took, 
And gave to me with flattering look — 
And I a foolish, sporting boy, 
Was full of vanity and joy — 
And when I took the gift I said, 
c I '11 place this wreath upon my head.' 
I did — and ever since 't was mine 
I 've loved my life, and love, and wine. 



TO EARTH. 



beauteous Earth how green and rich thy glories are! 
I love to gaze upon thy fair and awful forms, 

Or mid the*«hine of sun or lightning-flash of storms, 
Or gleams that on thee fall from many a twinkling star. 
No less I love thee, Earth, when high, the pale-orbed 
moon 

Is gilding o'er thy mountains, streamlets, groves, and 
trees, 

Or imaging her golden form beneath thy silver seas, — 
That happy emblem of man's last, divinestboon — 
To leave his form below, while soars his soul in heaven. 

Not much I wonder, Earth, that mortals love thee well ! 

For oft my soul has wished on some bright orb to dwell 
Where all things shining, seem as for God's angels given; 
Yet could it mount, heaven-winged, up to some realm afar 

1 know that thence thou too must seem, O Earth, as pure 

a star. 
8 



86 



COURTSHIP. 

A FABLE. 

As in a garden once I strayed, 

I saw a blushing rose, 
Bending its head as if afraid — ■ 

As if it wished to close. 

Around I looked the cause to find, 

And saw a butterfly ; 
I heard him tell the rose his mind, 

As gently he did sigh. 

Both talked and thus the rose did say, 

' Nay, painted thing, I ween 
Thou art an insect of a day, 

With thee, should I be seen ? ' 

Quickly the insect made reply, 

c Why I, Miss Rose, am made, 
To live me through the summer dry, 

But you may sooner fade ! ' 

And thus they talked a long, long time, 

Yet each did each admire ; 
But while they talked, how they might chime, 

I saw them both expire ! 



S7 



CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. 



A fable of the ingenious fabulist, Fontaine, states that 
the wolves after more than a thousand years' war against 
the sheep, joined with them in a treaty of peace. The 
young of both parties were permitted to intermingle, and 
mutual friendship apparently existed. The wolves, how- 
ever, perceiving their own power and the unconscious 
credulity of their companions, loosed their savage dispo- 
sitions, and began to devour the lambs. 

Hence we learn, that for the happiness of society it is 
absolutely necessary that a perpetual war should exist 
against those passions which tend to degrade the nature 
and dignity of man. Hence, too, we learn, that our 
weaker faculties are justified as it were, in obtaining for- 
eign aid to crush those passions which have ever been 
striving to gain the ascendency in men's minds. Nor is 
this all. It teaches us to remember that while we appear 
to enjoy the blessings and benefits of morality and re- 
ligion, even then our purity may be fast degenerating. 
It reminds us also to consider the effect of every contem- 
plated innovation, and encourages us to strive for the 
detection of that corruption which ever steals, when 
unguarded, into the bosom of society. 

If we examine closely, we may readily perceive that 
the greatest strength of a community will not be derived 
from the cultivation of the abstruse sciences, nor from a 
general and severe application to books. Indeed, it is 



33 CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. 

impossible for a people to be affected by these in such a 
manner as to increase their glory. For mankind feels 
that — 

The earthly god-fathers of Heaven's lights, 
Who give a name to every fixed star, 
Have no more profit of their shining nights, 
Than those that walk, and wot not what they are — 

and we may be assured that those objects only will engage 
the attention of the many which strike the mind plainly, 
and which of themselves affect it. The reason is, that 
men, for the most part, though formed for attention and 
thought, are too indolent, or too practical, to make rigor- 
ous application. There are only a few minds which delight 
in deep and abstruse science. It will be found, as a gen- 
eral truth, that greater pleasure arises from the observa- 
tion of those things with which the mind is delighted, than 
from the contemplation of the manner in which it is de- 
lighted. 

Thus far we have considered it as a fixed law, that in 
society the passions of men cannot be checked, unless by 
external or foreign aid acting on the heart. This, too, we 
have said, the whole mass of people must be capable of 
understanding ; it must be something which tends to 
please the minds of all ; it must be something which will 
work on those social affections with which man is nat- 
urally gifted, but which, when uncultivated, are almost 
crowded out of place, and indeed, out of existence. In 
order, therefore, that those vices which are apt to be 
prevalent in society, may be discarded, there must be a 
radical smothering of the passions ; and this can only be 
effected by changing the tastes of individuals, and of the 
people in general. This change cannot be accomplished 
by any direct attack upon gaming houses, or other equally 



CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. 39 

vile places, but must be effected by a gradual insinuation 
of those amusements into society which tend to soften the 
wildness and bind the strength of the passions. And for 
this, there are no other more efficient powers than those 
which exist in the Fine Arts, if we except those which 
may be unfolded in our social disposition. 

The human heart is most forcibly affected by those 
objects which approach it through the eye and the ear ; 
for this reason, therefore, the Fine Arts should be care- 
fully cultivated, as there are no other powers which so 
happily operate on those senses. In the Fine Arts exist 
principles common to our nature, and which always excite 
our sensibilities. By some it has been asserted that they 
cause licentiousness, and degrade the character of a peo- 
ple. This assertion is one which often has been ad- 
vanced, but has little soundness ; many facts in the his- 
tory of nations prove entirely the contrary. Education 
even is rendered much more pleasing and beneficial by 
their introduction. What joyous sensations thrill through 
us on hearing an exquisite swell of music, or in gazing 
upon a noble display of architecture ! Even in childhood 
how many have been excited by beholding that famous 
frontispiece in the primer, where 

Fame's proud temple shines on high ! 

And to what will every one who has thus been moved, 
attribute the excitement ? Will it not be to some myste- 
rious spell that is thrown around that temple — perhaps to 
the thought that intense gratification would ensue from 
passing through a real temple of the kind, w T here all that 
is beautiful and enchanting would be exhibited ? Here 
we leave this part of the subject, believing that no one will 
deny that the Arts have a powerful influence over the 

sensitive parts of our nature. 
8* 



90 CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. 

We might speak of the moral influence of the Fine Arts 
on a community, and of the power of a correct taste in 
removing from us disgusting objects; thereby freeing us 
from the thraldom of those harsh passions and vices with 
which man is continually beset. The power of the Arts 
in fitting the mind for intellectual exertion might also be 
noticed, together with the pleasure and benefit derived 
from their influence in refining the grosser parts of our 
being. 

Thus observing the utility, as well as pleasure derived 
from the cultivation of the Fine Arts, what a desire should 
arise in the bosom of each one who believes he has a god- 
like mind to attend particularly to their cultivation ! The 
rich, by expending their wealth for the purpose of impro- 
ving themselves and their country, would cause their 
inferiors not only to respect them, but they would be highly 
estedmed as men of lofty souls, who prefer intellectual 
pleasure to mere sensual gratifications ; and would exhibit 
that great truth, that man has a capacity for an intellec- 
tual being. 

The introduction of the Fine Arts into any nation, of 
whatever government, is of the greatest utility. There 
is no validity in that complaint against them, namely, that 
they have been used by monarchs to lull the people into a 
state of security. It is merely an argument to prove their 
power. They have flourished most in republican govern- 
ments; they have often kindled the flame of liberty. The 
Romans, the Greeks, and the Italians, excelled in the 
Fine Arts when the governments were the most nearly 
republican. And in the time of the Commonwealth, 
when the order was given for the destruction of the royal 
paintings, so great was the enthusiasm of the Protector 
for liberty, that he forgot for a while their power; but when 



CULTIVATION OF THE TINE ARTS. gj 

he reflected a moment, how suddenly was the order re- 
voked ! Cromwell understood the principles of republican 
government, and was always quick in discovering what- 
ever tended to sustain them. Other instances might be 
adduced to strengthen the argument. It is, however, 
sufficient to say, that those nations only have enjoyed 
happiness, which have strenuously cherished painting, 
sculpture, music and architecture; and that those, which, 
having once cherished these, afterward have neglected 
them, have, as if by a certain fatality, fallen into licen- 
tiousness. 

There are some citizens in republics who will not 
countenance the introduction of the Fine Arts. There is 
something in them, say they, which militates against the 
principles of liberty. Whether such persons are true 
patriots, or what is more, true republicans, is no very 
hard matter to solve. These persons fear a powerful 
argument and truth, which is, that the cultivation of the 
Arts serves to distribute the wealth of a nation equally, 
thereby enervating that aristocracy which is always on 
the alert to raise its head in a republic. 

The first desire of a republic should be to acquire 
wealth. This is the talisman of power and influence. 
As soon, however, as the republic and its citizens shall 
receive an income, just so soon should the Fine Arts be 
introduced. A standard of taste should be formed, by 
observing the models afforded by other nations ; and it 
should be the duty of government, as well as of individu- 
als, to encourage men of talent to supervise the different 
Arts. Those nations whose only aim is after wealth, will 
be found barbarous and savage ; and even those who have 
introduced the Fine Arts, but who have neglected their 
careful cultivation and patronage, have sunk into the pit- 



92 CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. 

falls of vice, and eventually have become degraded and 
slavish. Society is necessarily divided into different 
ranks ; — some persons must labor more than others ; — 
those of superior minds, of course, will cultivate intellec- 
tual pleasures, and the farther such a desire for the culti- 
vation of the mind is extended through a community, by 
so much is that community benefited both as to morals 
and wealth. For if the desire of a people be only to 
gratify their appetites, then wealth is a most pernicious 
possession. 

There are many more reasons which might be adduced, 
if space and time would permit ; but we must conclude 
with saying, that those who themselves practice the Arts, 
should remember that much also depends upon their 
taste. They should not prostitute their talents and genius 
merely to gratify the c many vulgar.' They should strive 
to create new forms, and to exhibit new conceptions — to 
hold a high place among those who become immortal ; 
and they will find no one at this day, who, like Clemens 
of Alexandria, will think it presumption for painters and 
sculptors to practice their arts, and rank them among rob- 
bers and cut throats, because it seems wrong to produce 
creatures after the example of Almighty, who alone has 
the right of creation ! 



93 



THE VOYAGE BY MOONLIGHT. 



It was at the setting of the sun, when the clouds far 
over in the west were fringed with alternate and changing 
hues of gold, and crimson, and purple. The many 
colored forest trees were casting their shades to the 
earth, as if desirous of embracing the soft petaled flowers 
which enriched it, like pearls scattered over the green 
garbs of the elfin band. The fairy queen had assembled 
the light footed and light hearted companions of her 
island, to consider the expediency and pleasure to be 
derived from a visit to the land of poets and poesy. 

The court was filled with bright eyed sylphs, sportive 
fairies, mystic elves, and the fair haired sea nymphs. All 
were charmingly attentive to the suggestions of their 
queen, and with one harmonious shout they agreed to 
embark on an expedition to the land of which they had 
conceived a delightful opinion. That evening was fixed 
upon for the visit, and they were to sail by the magic of 
moonlight. Accordingly, a deputation was sent to the 
inhabitants of the moon to request their assistance, which 
was favorably received, and which returned a favorable 
answer. 

The elves, the sylphs, and the fairies had spread wide 
their rustling wings, and the water nymphs had unfurled 
the silken sails of their vessel to the breezes — and all 
seemed ready for their embarkation. The silver moon, 
as its inhabitants hung lamps at every palace window and 



94 THE VOYAGE BY MOONLIGHT. 

in every garden, now coated the entire welkin with a 
silvery light, and the sportive creatures were gathering 
flowers to deck their vessel, and to weave garlands for 
their queen. The queen stepped into the mirador of the 
ship and was followed by her smiling companions. All, 
save one, had entered. That little sylph remained to 
unfasten the gossamer cable which was attached to the 
beautiful flower Althaga. As the tiny ship swung away 
from the shore, the little sylph disappeared among the 
flowers which were profusely scattered around. The 
voyagers waited some length of time, but she did not 
appear, and they proceeded on their way. As soon as 
the ship seemed like an isolate star on the verge of the 
horizon, forth tripped the roguish sylph. Around her 
neck were entwined roses; and her arms were laden with 
chaplets. She was decorated, around the waist, with a 
band of flowers tinged with every hue of the rainbow. 
She cast her sparkling eye toward the shallop, and stood, 
with a single thought in her breast ; — and that was, she 
must be with her companions. Lo ! she is flying and the 
flowers drop into the waves, as she shakes them off with 
her glassy pinions. She has reached the brightly painted 
ship, and the laughing crew kiss their hands, as she 
throws her wreaths upon the velvet deck. The moon is 
silently shining — very beautiful! while the laughing 
shouts of that fairy crew ring out in silver tones upon the 
air. The ship glides swiftly, and the waters sparkle in 
her track like the meteor in the heavens. 

They arrive at the destined land. They gaze with 
eyes of rapture on the bright scenes of the land of poesy, 
and deem it a place nearly equal to their own. As they 
gather the flowers, and sip their sweets, they observe at 
a distance, the poet reclining on a bank beside a gently 



THE VOYAGE BY MOONLIGHT. 95 

murmuring rivulet. They advance, and with magical 
voices, cause a trance to close his eyelids. Having 
bound him with their wreaths, they gently bear him to 
their ship, and place him on a downy couch. The bright- 
est scenes pass before him. He hears the aerial whis- 
pers and the melting music ; and he beholds the tremb- 
ling moonbeams upon the waters ; and, while the spell is 
upon him, he is conscious he is among their enchanting 
scenes, and awaking, finds 



THE SYLPH. 

But see how gently glides from yon dark cave 

That mirthful sylph, with light, elastic foot ! 
Now trips she near the shore where curls the wave 

Scarce crushing to a fold the flowery root. 

Her voice is sweeter music than the lute 
By lovers tuned when thrills the heart with love, 

Piping at night when all things else are mute ; — 
Yes, sweet as harmony from harps above 
The music of that voice where'er she wills to rove. 

Her eyes are beauteous — bright, alluring, too ! 

Like richest diamonds, in the depth of night, 
On pearly billows of the purest hue : 

Ay, brilliantly they shine, intensely bright, 

Gleaming with fire — that very soul of light ! 
Her eyelids like small curtain's shade 

Those Spirits fine, which in her airy flight, 
Peep out from their white palaces — afraid, 
Yet still inclined, to see the effect that they have made 



98 



THE BRIGAND. 



The last rays of the setting sun yet gilded the moun-* 
tains which rise so beautifully in the vicinity of Naples. 
The banditti were carousing on the side of the mountain, 
when the report of a carbine gave notice to the revellers 
that a party was near. In a moment the banditti dis- 
persed, and the space before the entrance of the cave, by 
the work of the fair daughters of the brigands, was 
cleared of the panniers, wine flasks, and other articles, 
which had rendered the scene a few minutes before all 
bustle and confusion. 

Zareo, to whom Zitella, the fairest and most sylphlike 
of the Brigands was ardently attached, at such times as 
these, when the party had gone abroad, was accustomed to 
meet and converse with her, contrary to the laws of the 
band, instead of lying in ambush to surprise or shoot down 
the traveller. While they were thus conversing, Cusay, 
the rival or rather the enemy of Zareo, had returned 
under pretence of obtaining ammunition, when in fact the 
real object was to discover them together. On discover- 
ing them, his countenance was lighted up with a smile of 
secret self-satisfaction, and as he entered the cell, turning 
to Zareo, he muttered, c Time might be more usefully, at 
least more honorably employed.' Zareo colored with 
indignation, and having kissed the hand of his beautiful 
companion hurried down the mountain. 

Cusay was an ambitious and selfish being, ever on the 



THE BRIGAND. 99 

watch to find out some method of injuring Zareo in the 
estimation of his associates; often hinting that his joining 
the band was mysterious ; that mysterious characters 
should be looked after — and that the countenance of 
Zareo was not the newest, if it was the latest among 
them, Such speeches, indeed, did not injure the popu- 
larity of Zareo, although his companions looked upon him 
with eyes more scrupulous, and some were persuaded that 
they had seen the man before his joining the band. He 
had come no one knew whence ; and had joined the band, 
for what they could not tell — for he did not seem inclined 
to rob, although no one could be said to be more bold and 
daring. 

Zitella, fearing the effect of the laws and anger of her 
father, who was captain of the banditti, should Cusay 
inform of what he had seen, besought him in the most ten- 
der manner, that he would not make it known. But 
Cusay was steeled by hatred, and chiding her, said, 
c Think you, girl, that your father's band is to be com- 
posed of white-hearted, sonnet-making lovers ? Tomor- 
row he dies if the laws of the rock of Carthanaro are put 
in execution.' e Say not so — he cannot, must not die. 

Spare him, oh ! spare him!' C I will — provided' 

* Provided what ? ' interrupted the young girl. c You 
become the bride of Cusay.' e Never ! ' ' Then his fate 
is decided ! ' Immediately Cusay returned to the band ; 
and Zitella fainted and fell to the earth. Soon the girls 
came to her assistance and succeeded in restoring her to 
herself. 

The sun had now sunk inthe wave, and the reports of 
the carbines had died away among the mountains. It 
was to the brigand the eve of a delightful day; twilight 
had enveloped every object in a veil of delightful dinv 
ness; and the appearance of the banditti, as they ascend- 



100 THE BRIGANI>. 

ed the mountain, was truly imposing. Zitella was now 
looking down the mountain in search of her lover, but she 
did not perceive him, as was usual, among the foremost 
The wounded were now brought up the mountain, and 
among them was borne the noble Zareo. In a moment 
Zitella was at his side, and having bound his arm with hei 
scarf, and given him some wine from a flask she had 
brought from the cave, he was soon able to move without 
assistance. Having dismissed those who accompanied 
him, with Zitella he ascended the steep. As they were 
about to enter the cave they espied Cusay and the Cap- 
tain in earnest conversation. Zitella feared, knowing that 
the conversation related to the late discovery. 

Already had the sentinels been placed, and the wound- 
ed laid on their couches, when the voice of the Captain 
was heard without, saying, that the Council of Ten 
would meet at the second watch. Zitella was then sit- 
ting by the side of Zareo; and as the Captain spoke, the 
vesper bell tolled. A solemn stillness, which seemed like 
midnight, reigned throughout the cave; all who were a 
moment before engaged in talking of adventures, or look- 
ing over the spoils taken in the late engagement, were 
now gazing on the crucifix or telling their beads. Instead 
af a cave of robbers, it had the appearance of the holy 
chapel of a monastery. Zitella was kneeling, clothed in 
a beautiful Brigand dress, and her head dress gave her 
the look of a Madonna, as she alternately cast her eyes 
on the crucifix and upward. An inexpressible delicacy of 
lustre played upon her features, and her eyes beamed with 
a quiet meekness of adoration, which told that the heart 
was moved by an almost angel-like sensibility. Awe, love 
and submission to the will of the Divine Spirit seemed the 
characteristics of her heart's devotion, and the hour of 
vespers, when all bowed in the same attitude of prayer* 



THE BRIGAND. JQ1 

gave the scene an almost ideal and romantic cast. Even 
the robbers seemed to have forgotten their recklessness 
and to have assumed the garb of virtue and honesty. 
Zitella dropped a tear as she cast her eyes on Zareo, and 
her bosom struggled with deep emotion, for she loved — 
she intensely loved the romantic Zareo. — Again all was 
bustle. — Zitella still gazed on the face of her lover, who 
had now sunk into a deep sleep. Her eye was soon at- 
tracted by a ribband which, placed around his neck, had 
something attached to it. Curious to know what it might 
be, she ventured to draw it from his bosom. It was the 
miniature of an elderly looking lady, clad superbly — her 
head dress adorned with the most precious jewels. The 
case was of pure gold, studded with the most precious 
diamonds. She concluded that he must be the descendant 
of some great family; and having carefully replaced it. 
taking her guitar, she sang this song adapted to a beauti- 
ful Italian air: 

Through the cave of the bandit, 

The light zephyrs blow ; 
The summoning mandate 

Wakes brave Zareo. 

Gtuick he springs from his soft bed. 

To join the brave band, 
By the brave and bold led — 

The active Brigand. 

His Zitella he meets then, 

In front of the cell — 
And hoping to meet again, 

Bids her farewell. 

Farewell, then Zitella sighs, 

Since you must go, 

I'll follow with watchful eyes, 

My brave Zareo. 
9* 



1Q2 THE BRIGAND. 

The sentinels of the second watch were now posted, 
and the Council of Ten had gone to the inner hall of the 
rock. 

Zareo had awoke as Zitella sang the last stanza, and 
heard the door close as the Ten went in. But the sound 
was not unpleasant to his ear, although his companion was 
much agitated. Long after midnight did the Council de- 
bate on the subject well known to the lovers, although not 
to the banditti. It was a glorious night, and the beautiful 
Italian sky was bespangled by myriads of stars. The 
lovers departed from the cave; as they walked along, 
Zitella expressed her fears that his death would take place 
in the morning. Zareo fearing, too, that her feelings might 
cause her injury, thought best to discover himself. — 
'Doubtless,' said he, 'you remember a person who some 
time ago was confined in the Doom dungeon, and whom 
you, by your intercessions, released. He was the Prince 
of Naples, who is now before you. 5 Zitella would have 
been thunderstruck, had she not been thinking of the 
miniature, and about to ask who the lady was she had 
seen. ' Now,' resumed the Prince, ' may I hope to gain 
you for my wife, and may that Cusay, who would have 
caused my death, be punished as he deserves.' 'How 
can he be punished? ' asked Zitella; ' if one of the band 
be punished, the rest will rise.' ' Fear not,' he answered, 
' the dawn will bring every thing aright.' They then re- 
turned to the cave, and entering, beheld the band sitting 
in solemn silence. The Prince was regardless of it, how- 
ever; for he well knew the cause. It would have made 
the heart of the stoutest sink, to hear the Captain pro- 
nounce the sentence; 'Death to Zareo, at sunrise!' — 
Every one retired to his couch melancholy, except Zitella, 
who smiled, enraptured with joy at the thought that Zareo 
would not suffer. 



TIIE BRIGAND. 1Q3 

The morning was one of uncommon splendor. Th# 
band had assembled to witness the execution. The sol- 
emn look and trembling step of those who were destined 
to take the life of one of their associates, spread a gloom 
over the scene. The Prince came last, with a firm and 
manly step, and Zitella at his side. A smile illumined his 
countenance, and standing before the band, he uttered 
these words: — 

'Friends! beware of treachery. You may well re- 
member that the King of Naples offered a large sum of 
money for the head of your Captain. Let me tell you, 
the King of Naples has been promised your Captain's 
head.' The attention of all was rivetted to the spot where 
the Captain stood, for he had pressed back the cock of his 
gun with his foot, and was about to take it up, when the 
Prince cried out, c Cusay is the traitor, and I the Prince 
of Naples! ' Scarcely had he spoken when the contents 
of the Captain's piece entered the breast of the traitor, 
and he fell headlong over the precipice. The Prince ad- 
vanced toward the Captain, and grasping his hand said: 
1 1 promise to intercede with my father for the band and 
you; and I know, as Zitella interceded once for me, and 
gave me liberty, so will my intercessions save your life.' 

The sudden change of character in Zareo, astonished 
the whole band, and with seeming reluctance they laid 
down their carbines, for they could hardly realize that 
they were about to enter on a new life. The Prince suc- 
ceeded in his intercessions, and was soon after married to 
Zitella. 

Some of the banditti are still remaining in the village 

of V , and often tell this story for the amusement of 

their friends. 



104 



TO OCEAN. 



Changeless, vet changeful Ocean! thine are power and 

Majesty! 
And Beauty oft doth enter in thy palace-gates and walls. 
And Light flies down, and gilds thy gem and greenweed 

sprinkled halls, 
Where Terror, Death, and Darkness dwell, and ever love 

to be! 
Where are the blackest and the brighest forms — mon- 
sters, and things 
Which mortal man may ne'er behold, and thenceforth. 

be secure, 
Ray-darting gems, bright gold, rich merchandize, and 

pearls sky-pure, 
Broad trees, deep coral groves, and pliant leaves, like 

fairies' wins- 
Whence are thy waters, and thy living depths, O 

Ocean? — whence ? 
Whence the clustering congregations of all past time, 

which shroud 
Thy form, or sleep within thee, an unforgotten, silent 

crowd — 
The bones, the wrecks, the arms of war, — so palpable 

and dense ? 
Whence thy black, eternal columns, 'neath which man 

never trod r 
Who gave thyself, and to thee, these? — the utterance of 

thy voice is — God. 



105 



A ROUNDELAY. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Let not my tender, youthful face 

Move you my song to scorn, 
Since love dwells in thy every grace, 

Who from a smile was born; 
Bowing before whose melting sway, 
Proud kings and shepherds all obey; 
For whom the lyre has oft been strung 3 
Though weak as I, and full as young. 

Cowards beneath his shadowy wings 

In dauntless bravery stand, 
Captive the savage heart he brings, 

Bound by his silken band; 
The wise are left no longer free 
Yet gain a sweeter liberty; 
This king of wise men and of strong — 
Is weak as I, and full as young. 

The soul of every living thing 

Is, neath his banner furled, 
He tunes the birds' soft caroling, 

And twines in love the world. — 
Air and heaven, the sea and land 
Yield obedience to his hand; 
This king of nature — lord of song, 
Is weak as I, and full as young. 



104 



TO OCEAN. 



Changeless, yet changeful Ocean! thine are power and 

Majesty! 
And Beauty oft doth enter in thy palace-gates and walls, 
And Light flies down, and gilds thy gem and greenweed 

sprinkled halls, 
Where Terror, Death, and Darkness dwell, and ever love 

to be! 
Where are the blackest and the brighest forms — mon- 
sters, and things 
Which mortal man may ne'er behold, and thenceforth, 

be secure, 
Ray-darting gems, bright gold, rich merchandize, and 

pearls sky-pure, 
Broad trees, deep coral groves, and pliant leaves, like 

fairies' wings ! 
Whence are thy waters, and thy living depths, O 

Ocean? — whence ? 
Whence the clustering congregations of all past time, 

which shroud 
Thy form, or sleep within thee, an unforgotten, silent 

crowd — 
The bones, the wrecks, the arms of war, — so palpable 

and dense ? 
Whence thy black, eternal columns, 'neath which man 

never trod? 
Who gave thyself, and to thee, these? — the utterance of 

thy voice is — God. 



105 



A ROUNDELAY. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Let not my tender, youthful face 

Move you my song to scorn, 
Since love dwells in thy every grace, 

Who from a smile was born; 
Bowing before whose melting sway, 
Proud kings and shepherds all obey; 
For whom the lyre has oft been strung^ 
Though weak as I, and full as young. 

Cowards beneath his shadowy wings 

In dauntless bravery stand, 
Captive the savage heart he brings, 

Bound by his silken band; 
The wise are left no longer free 
Yet gain a sweeter liberty; 
This king of wise men and of strong — 
Is weak as I, and full as young. 

The soul of every living thing 

Is, neath his banner furled, 
He tunes the birds' soft caroling, 

And twines in love the world. — 
Air and heaven, the sea and land 
Yield obedience to his hand; 
This king of nature — lord of song, 
Is weak as I, and full as young. 



106 TO A RIVER. 

His gifts, 't is said, are ever fraught 

With woe, and pains, and grief; 
By him are mortals ever taught 

To find a false relief 
In Hope's seductive, artful wiles, 
Which flatter with deceitful smiles: 
Love's magic chains are round us flung, 
Though weak as I, and full as young. 

At the roseate dawn, we know, 

The sun will quickly rise ; 
So Estella's features show 

Love's image in her eyes; 
And her drooping lashes seem 
Like a diamond's brilliant gleam! 
Ah! Love, who rules the Gods among, 
Is weak as I, and full as young. 



TO A RIVER. 

O glorious River, gleaming through green vales, 
Where zephyrs move thy bright blue, burnished scales, 

I love, at noon, to mark thee run, 

Sporting beneath the radiant sun. 

Smooth is thy face mid banks of glittering sand, 
Dazzling the eye, like a brilliant sapphire band: 

Thou movest as the fish that gleam 

Like living silver in thy stream! — 



TO A RIVER. 107 

Now gently gliding with a wavy pace, 
Now smoothly coursing with thy mirror face, 
Now curling, leaping in bright shapes 
To catch the juice of golden grapes — 

That hang in rich, round clusters from the trees* 
And scatter fragrance on the gentle breeze, 
Bending down, as it were to sip 
The ruby brightness from thy lip — 

Now tinkling o'er yon rock that in thy way, 
Seems, an imperious thing, to mock thy play, 
But only makes thee play the more, 
And laugh, and dance away to shore ! 



A thousand metaphors from a poet's brain 
Might not express the various tints that stain 
Thy waters, which, like colored glass 
O'er a bed of diamonds pass. 

Thou art to man a book of heavenly things, 
Even in the wildest of his imaginings ; 
He looks at thee, a spirit there 
Bows down his soul in humble prayer! 



108 



AUTUMN. 



Autumn ! rich Autumn ! decked with crimson robes, 

Gathered in knots made fast with pliant vines, — 

There is fruition in thy playful smiles 

And cheek sun-scorched, and flushed with shooting hues, 

The olive-branch hangs down about thy neck, 

And swollen wheat bends nodding o'er thy brow 

In softest dalliance with thy dimpling cheeks ! 

Thy mirthful shouts of laughter oft ring out 

Upon the hills, and echo mocks them there ! 

The drooping corn with joy lifts up its head, 

And listens to the oft re-echoed laugh : — 

The birds, above thee, sing with mellow throats, 

And fly around thee, while the golden corn — 

Those fruits of industry, more rich to man 

Than solid wedges from the miser's chest — 

Thou closely crowdest in thy twisted horn. 

Oh ! Autumn, blessed Autumn, still dwell here : 

For sweet it is, thy quick unheeding dance 

To see, amid the oaks and mazy groves ! 

A joy transcendant rises in my breast, 

To look upon the branches of the trees, 

Where hanging o'er the surface of the brook, 

Thou gatherest up the grapes, out-bursting, full 

With luscious juice made richer by the sun ! 

Smile on ! thou laughing girl ! with plenty smile ! 
And on the floor, amid the heaped up wheat, 



THE OLD DRAMATISTS. JQ9 

Lie down, and with thy fairy hands unlock 

The full, ripe kernels of the silk-bound corn, 

And scatter them in rich profusion round. 

Autumn ! thou giver of substantial gifts, 

The time must come for thee to move away, 

And smile on hills afar in other climes ; — 

But never shall thy votary here forget 

The bounteous stores thou gavest to his home. 

Welcome ! thrice welcome when thou dost return 

To guard the wholesome fruit upon our hills, 

And to our garners bring the yellow corn. — 

Farewell till then ! oh, wheat-crowned girl, farewell ! 



THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 



That is an exceedingly interesting page of the past, 
which reveals to us any great change in the moral condi- 
tion of the human race; and, of the several periods which 
are celebrated by the present generation, perhaps, none 
is more prominent, than that which dawned upon the 
world, at the expiration of the middle ages. The canopy 
of fame which hangs over the cradle of the infancy of 
English literature is decked w 7 ith stars, brilliant with a 
light peculiar and striking ; — the character of that light, 
too, but little known and little regarded. Although dra- 
matic writing is the most difficult pursuit which can engage 
the intellect ; although it was the pursuit in which very 

many of the men of genius engaged on the revival of 
10 



HO THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 

letters ; although it was a pursuit which when rightly 
followed, served to elevate the moral and intellectual 
standard of action, above that which existed in the era of 
darkness, yet succeeding generations have permitted near- 
ly all the dramatic works of merit, produced in the six- 
teenth century, to be neglected. 

We love to dwell on the genius of such men as Shaks- 
peare, Massinger, Ford, Fletcher, Jonson, Shirley and 
others, who though not properly esteemed even in their 
own age, because they were in advance of it, still deserve 
to have their names graven on the pillar of fame, in char- 
acters brilliant and imperishable j men whose minds were 
concentrated on a high and glorious object — an object 
which was, in effect, that of meliorating the condition of 
society, making the lives of men purer and better, driving 
from the heart all the remaining dregs of barbarian super- 
stition, giving light to the simple, and raising, and exalting 
society — that society, which, even in its best state, was 
tinctured with the miserable, though engaging and much 
admired romance of the preceding age — an age, crowd- 
ed with pageants and wickedness, sentiments and mur- 
ders, titles and slaves ! 

The regular drama had its origin in the religious exhi- 
bitions which were customary in Europe, during the dark 
ages. John Rastel, the brother-in-law of Sir Thomas 
More, was the first person who conceived the idea of 
imparting instruction, in respect to science and philosophy, 
through this medium. He was followed by Gascoigne 
and Marlowe, and subsequently by Shakspeare — and it 
is to Shakspeare, that the greatest improvement in dra- 
matic poetry is to be attributed ; and it is to him that 
posterity has given the crown of unfading and perennial 
laurels. Such is the peculiarity and versatility of his 
dramatic genius - — so great are his claims to immortality 



THE OLD DRAMATISTS. JJ} 

we behold his contemporaries, many of whom oftentimes 
display equal powers, with a species of jealousy or dis- 
trust, — we are not willing to believe that that age could 
have been glorified by so many choice spirits : nor are we 
willing to believe that the first period of modern history 
was an age wonderful for the progress of literature. We 
look to that age, as upon the heavens at night ; we behold 
the stars which cluster near the zenith, but those which 
blaze near the horizon are only detected by the most pen- 
etrating vision. We do not mark that age as we should, 
as one of master-spirits, as the court of genius, the acad- 
emy of poetry, the temple of literature, the arena of 
mighty and gigantic intellects. 

It was the Drama which gave instruction. Here the 
common people received their knowledge of history, and 
the court detected the nice shades of character. Here 
all learned moral lessons. Here was the past in actual 
existence, — and it is for this reason, that the historical 
plays of that age have little unity — rhetorical rules van- 
ish, and give place to truth. Nor was this all the instruc- 
tion that the drama imparted. Throughout the plays of 
Shakspeare and his contemporaries, life in its various forms 
was exhibited, illustrated and made known. Here could 
the passions be studied; here were the deceptions of men 
unmasked; here was pride prostrated ; here was virtuous 
ambition upheld; here was mercy inculcated, and charity, 
and love, and friendship, and affection, and all things 
truly pleasant and profitable in life. 

Beside, there is a rich moral philosophy scattered 
through their pages. It is a philosophy which the gen- 
iuses of our times have in some measure despised. Those 
men did not turn skeptics to be singular, nor atheists to 
be examined and studied. They were men who acknowl- 
edged that a divine Providence ruled the world, and they 



1J[2 THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 

pointed with a steady finger to virtue and religion as con- 
solations to wearied spirits. They told to their country- 
men truths of highest import, and they moralized not with 
the tongue of cant, but with the voice of conscience. It 
is for this, aside from other considerations, that their works 
claim the attention of the present and each succeeding 
generation — and it is for this that they should rank among 
the standard authors of the day. 

The high and powerful imaginations, which could com- 
bine some of the qualities of several minds into one, 
forming a character interesting in the extreme, whose 
every action, and whose fate the beholder is compelled to 
notice, truly merit our highest admiration. How far 
superior are they to those writers of our own time, who 
in their attempts to create personages of similar interest 
have failed, not merely by presenting distorted and ex- 
tremely unnatural characters, but those, the tendency of 
whose actions and fate, if not bearing immoral effect, 
certainly are somewhat doubtful. 

The genuine spirit of their poetry has another claim 
upon us. The poetry which they revelled in, was that of 
feeling combined with true fancy. The smoothness and 
beauty of sentiment which characterizes Fletcher ; the 
gay and fascinating elegance of description which immor- 
talizes Ford ; the nervous diction and delicately-shaded 
delineations of the passions which render Massinger 
almost equal to Shakspeare, are qualities which should 
inspire us with a soul-thirsting desire for their perusal. 
In fine, every kind of poetry which is pleasant to the heart, 
the ear, or the understanding, will be found in the works 
of these neglected masters. There is little of the namby- 
pamby thought of the nineteenth century to be found in 
their plays ; but it is that thought and expression which 
some of the best poets of latter days have not feared to 
borrow, to gild their own oftentimes elegant structures. 



REPUTATION. U3 

The lover of literature, then, if he would give a polish 
to language, and a richness to the expression of thought; 
if he would know the revealings of nature, or would be 
bound by all that is enchanting, he must launch forth upon 
the broad surface before hirn — there may he collect the 
lilies which expand in copious profusion, sparkling with 
their thousand glories : nay more, not confining himself 
to those riches above the surface, he may dive down into 
the pregnant depths, and bring up pearl after pearl at ev- 
ery successive visitation. 



REPUTATION. 



The man who wishes to be judged impartially, will 
prefer that posterity should decide whether he has any 
claim to future renown. But he who desires contempora- 
ries or friends to decide upon his character and actions, 
would be a selfish being, and could not possibly have any 
very considerable claim to distinction. Neither would he 
be a true genius, or profound scholar, who should crawl, 
like a guilty thing, away from the scrutinizing and search- 
ing eye of unbiassed judgment. The unprincipled person, 
who builds up his own reputation by destroying that of 
others, is the most despicable character in creation ; and 
he is the very person who would, most likely, desire to be 
judged by a party over whom he had exerted an influence 

favorable to himself, and obtained by crafty cunning and 
10* 



114 REPUTATION. 

smiling deceit. Fortitude to endure the blazing eye of 
truth, is only possessed by those who deserve to be truly 
celebrated ; or, in more concise terms, to be truly great, 
we must be morally fearless. 

All factions must have leaders, whose merits each fac- 
tion will emblazon beyond truth, and who will, by their 
clamorous shouts raise an excitement which will smother 
every dissenting voice. But faction must finally be des- 
troyed, and these leaders will sink into the grave ; and 
posterity will remove their crowns of fame to the heads 
which most merit such honors; - — to such heads, perhaps, 
as, in modest seclusion, have kept back from the world 
the productions of their studious hours, but who have at 
length been ushered into the world, to receive the immortal 
honor due to thern. Soecific cases might be mentioned : 

A O J 

but what need is there, since every one and any one, by 
casting a single glance around, can discover numberless 
illustrative instances. 

Let not any man, therefore, who wishes to be celebra- 
ted for his genius, his virtues, or any other qualities, act 
according to the taste of his contemporaries, or court their 
favor, by indulging their appetites ; for such taste is gen- 
erally depraved, and the results of such indulgence far 
from being immutable. That which is admired in our 
age, may, with great justice, be ridiculed in the next. 
And, through whatever sphere a man wishes to move — 
be it in the deep, abstruse speculations of science, in the 
changing, unsettled notions of politics, or in the more 
easy and pleasant pursuits of polite literature — he cannot 
but find that he who has catered entirely for the taste of 
the age in which he has lived, has been wafted, by allur- 
ing and fascinating breezes, into the waters of oblivion. 
The greatest philosophers have been covered with the 
shafts of satire in one age, and their learning and talents 



REPUTATION. 115 



extolled in the next. The greatest statesmen have been 
found to be so, only when their posthumous productions 
have been brought into light. The greatest poets have 
been ridiculed while living, and, by the dash of a pen, 
raised to immortality by posterity. On the other hand, a 
mere novice in philosophy has been raised to an elevated 
distinction among contemporaries, which he has lost with 
posterity. More striking cases may be seen among poli- 
ticians, and still more striking examples are visible where 
persons have obtained, with contemporaries, a good repu- 
tation as men of nice literary taste and judgment, but 
whose characters, when weighed in the balances of truth, 
have been ascertained, and their lustre dimmed by the 
shining of some brighter constellation. 

Indeed, it may be said, Time is the cupel of reputation, 
in which Posterity, the careful alchymist, examines atten- 
tively, and tries fully, the characters of those men who 
have lived in previous ages. It is the refiner, who, with 
the equitable and discriminating eye of perseverance, 
separates the base alloy which has gathered on the char- 
acter, and brings forth, in all its purity, the rich and sunny 
gold, claimed by study and genius. Posterity has no sin- 
ister motives — can have none; no envy, no prejudice, 
but judges, and must judge with a discrimination the most 
accurate, and a taste the most correct. All the mists that 
descend from the firmament of antiquity upon the garden 
of posterity, are separated from their impurities, and distil 
into dewdrops of truth. If the mind be desirous to be 
judged by posterity, then the inward ambition is awa- 
kened : genius, real genius, if it exist, will blaze on the 
altar of independence, and the mind will have an imagin- 
ary foretaste of the joys which will result from the decis- 
ions of Truth, that offspring of old, gray-haired Time. It 
will look with a careless eye on the opinions of those 



HQ REPUTATION. 

biassed by envy and servitude, and will move on, with a 
free spirit, to accomplish its lofty and original concep- 
tions. Like that of Milton, it will be all devotion to the 
subject ; it will move eagle like, soaring upward and 
onward to the sun, and, far from the gaze of the multi- 
tude, it will career alone, basking in the sunshine of glory 
to be seen only by the admiring eyes of future genera- 
tions. 

Whereas the mind that enslaves itself, by catering for 
the taste or madness of a faction or party — that brings its 
standard down to the depraved, and, it may be, demoral- 
izing taste of the public — can give but a black impres- 
sion, though the types be of silver. Its strength will be 
prostrated, and, like the fallen oak, all its majesty will 
vanish, and its once green boughs will wither. This 
slavishness, visible in those desiring present popularity, 
is a dire plague spot on the fair bodies of science and 
literature. This deadening of the finer faculties of gen- 
ius, this chaining and fettering of the intellect, should be 
discontinued, and the mind should be permitted to take 
its free and heavenward course. 

Let us, then, have an ambition not to tantalize our 
naturally good natures, by harboring fiendish envy, which 
we cannot but do if we would be first to court the ap- 
plause of our contemporaries — but to pass over the paths 
of life without crushing the flowers which embellish them, 
and aiming to make ourselves useful to our natures, 
act up to the spirit of independence which has been 
implanted in our bosoms. 



117 



LOW CHIMING BELLS, 



SET TO MUSIC BY GEO. KINGSLEY. 



Low chiming bells, low chiming bells, 
The Past their deep vibration knells ; 
And memory views, while veiled in tears, 
The spectre-pageant of dead years. 

Dear mournful bells ! dear mournful bells ! 
Within their chime a charm there dwells, 
That shows a scene in which appears 
A throng of forms to join the Years. 



Chime, pleasant bells ! chime, pleasant bells ! 
Your cadence cheers the mounts and dells ; 
And while I hear and love your chime, 
I deem you Magi over Time. 

Sweet speaking bells ! sweet speaking bells ! 
Like streams from founts your music wells ; 
And men like you shall pass their time, 
Be mournful, joyful — cease to chime. 



118 



INTRODUCTION 

TO THE COMMON PLACE BOOK OF MISS S. F. A.J' 

Tireless and iron wings hath Time ; his flight 

Is o'er a current smooth and beautiful ; 

But not to all. Some find a being there 

Whose quick eyes wakeful are and watchful ever ; 

And some dark cloud, or storm, or gulf of fire 

In fancy, or reality, they see, 

To make them curse the stream on which their barks 

Are launched ; and dull and dark they call the stream ; 

Its waters bitter are — of trouble full ! 

Lady, with thee it is not thus. — Calm Hope 
Stands at the prow of thy joy-freighted bark, 
Upon her anchor leaning patiently ; 
And Prudence, at the helm, with eye most keen, 
Resolved and prescient sits, gazing before. 
And in my vision now — a prophet's sight ! 
Thy bark I see, fanned on by Time's broad wings, 
Whose waving makes the breeze upon that stream, 
While heaven-winged Blessings hover o'er thy head ; 
Thyself with this same book beloved in hand, 
O'er its rich writings turning; and I see, 
As thou dost scan its thought, much lovelier things; 
Back on the stream clusters of friends arise, 
Whose names and thoughts are treasured on each page - 
And as thou gazest on them, thou dost feel 
As if they all were present with thee there ! 



THE HOMELESS YOUTH jjq 

The stream is Life — thy bark, the tenement, 

In which the beacon-spirit burns to guide, 

To watch, to ward, and thou mayst look before, 

Or after, on the holiest scenes of life, 

And see, so strangely magical is mind, 

All that is loved. 

Lady, remember this ! 
Remember, too, that stream flows ever on, 
And launches thee upon a boundless sea ! 
Bid Hope and Prudence, therefore, watch for thee, 
And seek thyself a star that hangs aloft, 
And finding, study well its mystery; 
Thee will it guide, solace, preserve forever; 
It is the Eternal Star of Bethlehem ! 



THE HOMELESS YOUTH. 

A BALLAD. 

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. 

c Away from my home I heedlessly stray, 

No care for my lot is there ; 
But my heart will find a flowery way 

For I heed not thy shades — Despair ! ' 
Thus sang a poor youth, in the summer time, 

As near the dark sea he strayed, 
While his eye lighted up at the scene sublime, 

And the winds with his bright locks played. 



120 TOALADY. 

' I fly from this shore — to thee I now come ! 

Ye winds waft my bark away — 
O dull is the path that leads toward home, — 

And before is a flowery way ! ' 
He bade the seamen the light bark unmoor, 

While winds mid the sails did sigh, 
And he thought not that Winter on Ocean's floor 

Would see him and his proud bark lie. 



TO A LADY 

Uttering a slanderous word. 

Lady, look up, and in the air 

Behold yon wandering thistle-beard; 
Ay ! mark each bright, gossamer spear 

Around its little centre reared. 
How swiftly sails it on — and on, 

Carried by every breeze astray, 
Now mounting to the brilliant sun 

Now sinking through the air away — 
Oh soon that giddy thing will fall 

And silently will take its rest, 
But still will sow a poisonous thorn 

Within earth's calm and placid breast. 

Dost mark the moral, lady fair ? 

A careless word may move around, — - 
Chased onward by a thousand tongues 

Which echo every sound; 



TEARS. 121 

And when it finds its final rest 

'T will sow a seed of care, 
And bring forth thorns within the breast 

To grow and flourish there. 



TEARS. 

I wished but for a single tear, 

As something welcome, new, and dear. 

What makes life so remarkably precious to man, is not 
his love for a single pleasure or beauty, but the enjoyment 
which is received from the many influences of a vast num- 
ber of comparatively little benefactors, for whom he has 
very firm attachments. The spirit is encircled and en- 
chained by a wreath braided with numberless flowers, 
congregated together with curious, and entertaining, and 
attractive workmanship. This wreath is seldom broken 
asunder, but the spirit, when the moment arrives for its 
departure, soars upward to its own secret element, like 
the perfume of the flowers by which it is surrounded. — 
Truly our imagination, at sundry times, magnifies the 
wreath, and by our fancies, the various strands of its 
braid are often multiplied, and by many tints and hues it 
is rendered more fascinating. Nevertheless, imposing 
and lovely are its realities, and we fix upon them with a 

nice knowledge of their strength and richness. We feel 
11 



122 TEARS. 

that they are exceedingly productive to our mind of pleas- 
ure and profit, and to our heart peculiarly soothing and 
delightful. And it does not now occur to us, that there 
is any thing more beautiful amid these animating, yet in- 
animate benefactors, than those mysterious ministers — 
tears ; nothing which takes such deep hold on the inner 
man, the sympathies, and our holier nature. 

Tears are the companions of our existence. With the 
meek little sufferer, they enter upon the intricate and by- 
crossing path-ways of this wonderful, yet gradually open- 
ing world, and they do not leave him, until all mystery 
has passed away — until the variously shifting scenes 
have all been exhibited, and the curtain of death has shut 
him out from whatever of joy or of sorrow, of pleasure or 
of pain, he may have experienced. 

Tears accompany our hopes — they mingle with our 
sorrows — they bind and strengthen with our penitence 
-— they have a flow with our afflictions — they mark our 
pity — they speak in our gratitude — they chasten our 
love — they arise with our joyousness — they are among 
our divinest inheritances ! Deprived of them, our mis- 
fortunes and troubles would alike be aggravated, our 
sympathies would be examined with distrust, and heart 
would not speak unto heart, as it now does, with its irre- 
sistable and revivifying language. The true state of our 
characters would be hidden under the mists of an unwel- 
come hypocrisy, and every man might assume a charac- 
ter for every change of scene, if better feelings did not 
step in before the desires for one's own interest. 

But we are now looking at the scenes of real life. — - 
There, across that street, hobbles a poor, lame and 
wretchedly miserable mendicant. For his head, there is 
no pillow — for his body, no food — for his protection, no 
home. Now, an individual passes him, and now turns 



TEARS. 123 

back. See ! he places in his hand a mere coin ! — The 
mendicant's eyes are suffused, and a tear has fallen. It 
is the tear of gratitude ! It is directly from the heart ! 
Oh who would not wish to give, and give, to be thus re- 
warded ! 

Just look yonder ! There sits a person, of great moral 
purity and worth, in anguish of soul. He has fallen from 
his high eminence, by some fault incident to our common 
nature. But a friend is near, sympathizing with him, and 
in tears too ! What savory balm for woe ! What oil of 
gladness for the Spirit ! 

And so we might pass on through the world, and be- 
hold many similar scenes, whose tendency would be to 
elevate our opinion of the sanctity and preciousness of 
those little heralds of our feelings, who start forth from 
the soul in a moment, unrestrained, and even before we 
are aware of it ; mounting into the world through that 
transparent veil of the heart — the eye ! hanging like 
water-drops on the satin leaf of a lily, or like a rain-drop 
on a withered oak-leaf of Autumn, or perchance like a 
dew-drop in the delicate eye of a violet. Or, we might 
behold them in other situations delightfully pleasing to the 
mind ; perhaps in some of those situations, in which they 
have a remarkable influence upon our social passions, sit- 
uations in which these angels of light move on healing 
wings, that rustle by us, and fan our hearts into flames as 
unquenchable^ as the affections are untameable, which 
awake them. 

There are some persons, who are ashamed to have it 
known that they have been in tears. This arises from a 
foolish delicacy ; and although the spirit receives the most 
enjoyment from those which are shed in solitude, yet to 
let it be known, at least, not to deny such a fact, is com- 
mendable, and will never cause any one to think less of 



1<24 TEARS, 

us. Besides, tears are, doubtless, in all cases, the pure 
offspring of the feelings ; and we are not of those that 
can believe that they can be used when wanted. There 
are some persons who assert this, and who would have 
human-kind believe it ; but it will not, it cannot be be- 
lieved. Man is too fond of the poetry of life, to let the 
smallest portion of it slip away from him ; and least of 
all, these his richest and most beloved treasures, without 
which, there would be nothing to express, with truth, the 
features of the soul. For we find that men of kindli- 
ness are able to shed tears ; because they are excited 
by that divine sympathy, which is a mysterious and per- 
petual flow of electricity, shooting through the whole 
chain of society, animating it, and making every particu- 
lar part to vibrate with feeling. And who is there, that 
would willingly deprive himself of this unforbidden luxu- 
ry ? — who is there that would case in his heart against 
these talismans c polished by the hand divine ? 5 Who is 
there, that would not desire to shed at least one tear, 
which is the most sacred of all ; before which, even the 
gates of heaven open — the tear of penitence ! 

To the purpose of poetry, the description of tears has 
been applied with great power. We love the author who 
uses them ; and when they are introduced, we are imme- 
diately interested. The heart is all engaged. His de- 
scriptions fall upon it, like the continual dropping from an 
overflowing fountain, wearing off all roughness, and giv- 
ing smoothness to the affections. We are enlivened, or 
saddened, as the author pleases. In his descriptions, we 
are, — let their characters be what they may, — irresistibly, 
and in spite of ourselves, borne along. If the author be 

Watering the roses of a healthful cheek 
With dews of silver, 

we are pleased ; or, if he describe the silver-haired vet- 



HYMEN. 125 

eranof four score years and ten, weeping, our sympathies 
are drawn in, and we discover that 

It is a moving thing to see the teares 

Wrung out from an aged eye ; 
Seldom and slowe, lyke the scantye droppes 

Of a fountain that 's near a drye ! 

We know that there are those in the world, who despise 
the sight of tears, and who are totally beyond their pow- 
er ; but far the greater part of them are men who have 
lost all the social feelings, and who do not have any 
claims upon their fellows ; who should not mingle with 
the world, because they are not constituted to make those 
around them either happier or better. But our opinion 
should not be changed on this ground. We should re- 
member that they are peculiarly the gift of mortals ; that 
even the angels are cut off from the happiness arising 
from them, and that they were given to us by God. 



HYMEN. 

Young Hymen is painted in prints much admired, 

With a torch that burns brightly as a flame from the sun; 

But much truer to truth our artists would paint, 
If flames from two torches were twined into one. 



11* 



126 



THE WINTER HEARTH FIRE. 



The winter hearth fire is the grand awakener and en- 
livener of the household affections. When the family- 
circle is around it, a chain of indissoluble hearts is formed. 
The holy feelings which relationship cherishes gush 
out in the calm flashes from the glowing eye, and move 
and play tremulously, like a succession of floating pulse- 
beatings, throughout the bosom. The cheerful blaze — 
the soft light of the shaded lamp— the warm, close room 
— the shut-out world, and the singleness of the scene, 
make the situation of any individual in the group, delight- 
fully pleasant. It is a place like no other — like a para- 
dise — like a heaven, but different ! It is there only that 
heart speaks unto heart, each with its most kindly in- 
fluence. It is there only that the ties of kindred are dis- 
played in all their strength, It is there only that we 
perceive the purity, and the fulness, and the loveliness of 
those affections which are among the divinest heritages of 
our existence. It is there only that all we love, and all 
we would wish to love forever, come home upon the soul 
with all that is powerful, and make us to feel and be aware 
of the goodliness and worth of much that tends to benefit 
us 3 and render us happy throughout our earthly condition. 



127 



GRAMMAR, RHETORIC AND LOGIC. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

These three elegant, ornamental and much admired 
arts, upon which many of the most learned, profound and 
eloquent writers have treated, although not immediately 
connected, have a visible and essential intercourse with 
each other. One very peculiar circumstance in regard to 
these arts is, that while they treat of different things, all 
have one common point to which they tend ; and all 
beautifully assist and harmonize with each other : so that 
they may, with a considerable degree of propriety, be 
styled the Graces. Under the allegory of their con- 
structing a building, or temple, which is Language, we 
shall attempt to introduce some of their qualifications. 

Grammar, although not habited in so fascinating a 
costume as the other two sister Graces, possesses yet the 
most desirable and essential qualities ; and her aid lost, 
the very symmetry of the building would be destroyed, 
and the labor of Rhetoric and Logic would be useless. It 
is she that gives the delicate, well-proportioned and beau- 
tiful appearance to the fabric. True, she is not the 
disposer of these elegancies : but she is apparently — for 
by her rules the sisters are guided. Whatever they per- 
form, brings into operation some of her rules, and they 
are always under her direction, or her power and influ- 
ence. She teaches the connection between the various 
parts, but especially the more minute and delicate. She 
is not the despiser of what is gay and fanciful ; still she 



1^8 GRAMMAR, RHETORIC AND LOGIC. 

delights in plainness and propriety, and is willing that the 
other more beautiful ornaments be added by her sisters. 

It is the province of that bold, commanding and coy 
sister, who delights in the most intricate parts, to afford 
much of the material for construction, at least the most 
solid part of it. The cement, that is, reason — the raft- 
ers and supporters, which are the powers and operations 
of reasoning — form the greatest part of the temple ; and 
they are applied by such nice and exact rules, that she 
alone presides over that part of the work. She gives 
strength and permanency to the building, and adds such 
qualities that men are persuaded she is one of the most 
valuable and learned architects. She has not the imme- 
diate power of feasting the eye, but she has the power of 
pleasing the thinking mind. Her portion of the fabric 
would appear very stiff, unless the ornaments of Rhetoric 
were often seen giving elegance and dignity to the struc- 
ture. 

Rhetoric is the slightest, most fascinating, and the most 
beautifully attired of the Graces. She does not dwell 
upon the solid material, except to bring it to a certain 
exquisite smoothness. Into her hands, the temple is last 
committed, and it is her chief care to give it a beautiful 
polish, and to fashion it correctly ; and in fashioning it 
correctly, she is always assisted by her sister Grammar ; 
and they often act in concert ; while Logic, who delights 
to meditate, steals as unobserved away, to think in silent 
solitude. Rhetoric charms the eye and allures the imag- 
ination ; she ornaments the work with all those things 
which will give it neatness, and sometimes adds very gaudy 
garniture. She binds us to her by an irresistible attrac- 
tion ; she persuades us of the beauty and harmony of the 
structure, and steals unawares over the senses. She is 
the most charming of this beautiful trio. 



129 



A FACT TOLD IN RHYME 

Some time ago, perhaps twelve years or so, 
One Byron wrote his e Beppo' in a verse, 

Which seems, some think, spontaneously to flow — 
And though spontaneously, not much the worse ; — 

Some say they like it — others say 't is low, 

And some have on it fixed their direst curse, — 

But I do n't care about that poem now, 

My stanza 's like it — and I make my bow. 

Reader, you '11 wish the incident just here, 

You '11 wish to know, too, what this tale contains ; 

But I can say there 's nothing in it queer, 
Nor aught to cost the trial of your brains — 

And for your censure, much I shall not fear, 
Since not a person now 'days takes the pains 

To read a rambling poet's studied rhymes, 

Unless he give some ' touches at the times.' 

But ah, my hero ! what shall be his name ? 

Name ? — Ay, name ! he has one, has he not ? 
Well truly, I can't say it 's ' Pudding Tame,' 

Or what 's more accidental, namely Lot — 
That rhyme, I think, exceeding easy came, 

From Walker it did not borrow e'en a jot : — 
But what *s all this to do with my grand hero ? 
May-be his name is Captain Jacob Nero ! 



130 A FACT TOLD IN RHYME. 

It is his name, and so I write it down, 

A shoemaker was Captain Jacob Nero ; 
He lived upon the outskirts of the town — 

Indeed, I think, this line should end with hero. 
My hero's face was dark complexion — brown, 

Which, when he laughed, made him look quite queer-o ; 
But as you know what dark complexion is, 
You must have formed conceptions of his phiz ! 

And now no more digression — once he went 

Into the mart to buy a piece of meat, 
And while he looked about with eyes intent, 

A butcher followed at this hero's feet, 
And to him said : — ' Please go where I am bent, 

And from my cellar lift into the street' — 
To find out what, the reader must read on, 
And if he does, he will discover soon. 

Nero consented at the butcher's will ! 

Just fancy, reader, that he 's at the work, 
That now he pulls — that now again he 's still — 

That now he lifts the barrel of salt pork ! — 
And all this, too, for Rum — a half a gill — 

That now he wishes he had been a Turk ; 
For all well know that Turks pork never touch — 
And therefore was it, Nero wished him such. 

For whenliej-aised the barrel to its place, 
A sound within his bosom made him fear ; 

Hisjimbs all trembled — blood forsook his face, 
And e'en his eye discharged the briny tear. 

4 Alas !' he cried, ' good sir, I die apace, 
That noise proceeded from my bosom here ! 



A FACT TOLD IN RHYME. 131 

I 've broke a blood-vessel V — he ceased to talk, 
And fainting quickly, fell upon the walk. 

Straitway, a crowd did gather round the man ; 

Straitway, a doctor came unto the place ; 
Straitway, he ordered one to bring a fan ; 

Straitway, himself he looked upon his face — 
His pulse he felt, and did — as any body can — • 

Across the walk in pensive study pace, 
Thinking, no doubt, he'd make him run a bill, 
If he could rouse Jhim so 's to take a pill. 

To cut the matter short, our hero lay 

Sick ; — for the thought of death was truly sad : 

Conserve-of-roses did he eat all day, 

Which being very sweet made Jacob glad ; 

But sometimes, reader, he would even pray, 
For mending soles had made him very bad. 

And although a skeleton almost, and pale, 

After one month he waxed again, quite hale. 

Of Captain Nero, now, I take my leave ; 

But stay, I have not yet quite told my story ; — 
You see, while gazing with his eyes of grief, 

He saw his watch, in which was half his glory, 
And so he tried to wind it up — in brief 

The chain was snapped : that made his bosom gory 5 
And so to him it seemed — the chain whizzed round, 
And made what he supposed the bosom sound ! 

q. 

P. S. It was the chain's whiz, so our rhymer tells, 
Which made this poor shoemaker sick so long ; 

For when the chain broke, bound by mystic spells, 
He thought him hurt — but he was in the wrong ! 



232 DIARY OF THE ABUSED. 

I think, in rhyming nicely Q excels ; 

But why not give this moral to his song ? 
When pains seize you almost anywhere, don't follow a 
Common rule and call it genuine Cholera ! 



DIARY OF THE ABUSED. 

A BEQUEATHED MANUSCRIPT. 

Pupil. He knits his forehead oft, and mutters > Death* 
And sits alone all day, by some rude brake, 
And weeps : they say, because his father's stern, 
And with a thong doth stripe his naked limbs. 

Master. That father, then, must be one of the old school, 
Who whip and scold with indignation mad, 
And beat the body to perfect the mind. — New Play. 

The paternal rod is either a demon, or a deity. It is a 
chastener of the passions, else the goad and incentive to 
deeds of criminality and wickedness. Its power over 
the mind is great — -it is almost inconceivable. If often- 
times used, its affect upon that sensitive string, which 
binds the feelings of our nature together, is so powerful, 
that it acts on it, as did the spikes upon the body of that 
Roman who was placed alive in a chest, through the 
bottom and sides of which were driven those goads which 
spurred him on to death. How shallow-brained are those 
rigid beings who countenance and applaud flagellation ! 
Is it possible, though they be ever so inconsistent, that 
they should think themselves justified by the passage in 
Proverbs — c He that spareth the rod, hateth his son : he 



DIARY OF THE ABUSED. I33 

that loveth him, chasteneth him betimes V Solomon was 
a wise man, and wisely hath he said, ' chasteneth betimes' 

— an expression, the force of which is that the child 
should be chastised on the first appearance of the evil 
passions, not after it is discovered that the rod is of no 
service. It would be best that the rod be never used, 
unless a father understands well the nature of his son's 
feelings, or be as wise as Solomon. 

In some instances the rod uplifted may have conquered ; 
but the rod applied may have often excited in the breast 
the most demoniacal feelings. Who is it that takes the 
rod in his hand to chastise ? Is he not a frail mortal ? 
Was he not born a child, and did he himself never wander 
from the path of rectitude ? Who is it that dares to take 
the lash in one hand, and the reins in the other, and say, 
' It is for me to curb the passions ?' Wonderful assump- 
tion of power ? A frail mortal guiding a frail mortal. At 
best, the blind leading the blind. 

There are some sons, perhaps, who might be scolded 
and lashed, and still not be affected in their feelings ; — 
but there are others, who having a spirit of pride in them 

— noble, manly pride — would be the worse for it. All 
cannot bear scourging ; and it was a noble spirit the 
Romans had, which prompted them to look upon the pun- 
ishment by the lash as most debasing and disgraceful. 
Indeed, what is there more mournful to a man of noble 
sentiments than to know that he is receiving the same 
treatment as the beasts ! 

I had a friend, the entire tone of whose feelings was 
produced mainly by the circumstance of his father's 
severity. To say that he had a mind capable of great 
effort, is useless — since no grand effort was made. How- 
ever, be it remembered that the love of books was one 
consoling object amid his bitter moments ; and to his 
12 



134 DIARY OF THE ABUSED. 

books he always retreated when the press of reflections 
and anxieties crowded in upon his mind. In these he was 
able to drown his cares, and to these he appeared to pour 
forth every lingering particle of love that remained in his 
bosom. From some little memoranda, expressing his 
feelings, and some incidents of his life, I extract the subr 
joined. 

jfe 4fr 4K< ' ° -lb Afe dt> - db 4(* ' . db , db 

This day has been a day of passionate feelings, and of 
passionate exclamation ! The pressed spirit has had no 
soothing moments to ease itself with a divine philosophy 

— and as the gripe of the assassin around the throat per- 
mits only a few incoherent bursts of distress to escape 
from the assailed, even so my spirit has to-day eased itself 
by its mere exclamations. It is night, and it suits my 
feelings ; it soothes my spirit, and it renders tranquil the 
waves of passion. Thought is more divine, when the 
stars are seemingly sympathizing w ? ith our natures, and 
looking down upon us with their steady and enchanting 
light. The moon seems a guardian ; and we may not 
walk toward the cataract with a disgust for life, without 
her following cautiously, and carefully hanging over us. 

It was some time since, that I did some little inconsidr 
erate thing, of no more consequence to me — nor would 
it have been to any person of a feeling above earth — 
than the idle words of the ignorant. The affair had passed, 
away silently for an hour, and, as I supposed, into Lethean 
forgetfulness — but not so; my father discovered that I 
was the author of the mischief, and ordered me to my 
bedroom, without food, without a companion, there to re- 
main till the next morning. Fear of a severer punishment 
made me obey — it was not from reverential or holy feel- 
ings. Long since has all reverence for my father ceased 

— long since has the fountain of holier emotions become 



DIARY OF THE ABUSED. J35 

dry, and the seal of indifference is set upon my heart — 
immoveable, never to be broken ! 

I entered my apartment like a felon, but yet uncon- 
scious of crime. I was proud in my suffering ; and when 
tho bolt closed me in, with stoical fortitude did I endure 
the agony of grief. I lay upon my bed, thinking of the 
cruelty of my father, when I was aroused by the eager 
shouts and merry voices of my playmates, who were 
breathing the free air of liberty. I saw them — and I 
know not why, but I could not long gaze on them. I 
closed my window and shut out the songs of the birds and 
the shouts of my companions, and again did I throw my- 
self upon my bed ; and although miserable in spirits, yet 
I felt so proud in innocence that it was pleasant. Feel- 
ings ! such feelings as a despairing innocent is possessed 
of, rushed in continual and successive crowds over me ; 
and with haughtiness did I now look upon the comforts, 
even, which were furnished by my father's goodness — 
that goodness which seemed to me but the cold, heartless 
bestowment of duty — of duty which seemed to be the 
only all, that saved me from being sent forth into the 
world naked, penniless, and destitute. Meditating on my 
situation, I felt that life was a troublesome and useless ex- 
istence. This, thence, was the only thought which was 
present with me till I left my prison. When that moment 
arrived I walked forth. A philosopher never was calmer 
or more serene, in such a situation. A boy of eleven 
winters, I felt myself a Socrates. 

I went from the house. I wandered far from home ; 
and when the sun was resting on the western hills, I bent 
down to the limpid pool to refresh my parched tongue. — 
As my lips drew in the cooling draught, I discovered my 
face and form in the water, and my feelings reverted to 
the mirror that hung in our withdrawing-room — this 



136 THE ICEBERG. 

brought to mind my home. My treatment there, and its 
effect upon me, I well considered. I could not elope for 
ever undiscovered, and live — there was but one way to 
be happy. The stream, that gradually rolled on beneath, 
I thought would carry me to my last happy home, and I 
resolved to plunge over the precipice. The thought of 
death was pleasant. The bright lights in the azure can- 
opy of heaven, the moon in her silent watchfulness, and 
the glory of the scene changed my determination. Still, 
I involuntarily wandered through a narrow pathway into 
a deep glen, which seemed hallowed by nature in all her 
purity. Here the feelings of pride roused me to a sense 
of my situation. ( What ! ' said I, ' shall a father's sever- 
ity be the cause of my destruction ? No ! Judgment, 
let me lean on thy strong arm — dispel the tangling meshes 
of those passions which the rod has created in my bosom; 
and then, O ! Divine Patience, with thy gracious smiles, 
encourage and cheer me onward, and amid all my fa- 
ther's tyrannical severity, may I remember that he is still 
my father ! ' 



THE ICEBERG. 



A stately ship is sailing out 

Upon our bright, blue, lovely bay, 
And round it, waves, with tiny shout, 

Like fairies dance, then leap — away 
Her sails are white before the breeze, 

And many a watcher on the shore, 
With tearful eyes, the proud ship sees, 

Uttering his ' farewell ' o'er and o'er. 



THE ICEBERG. 137 

That ship glides on — and merrily 

The passengers begin to sport, 
And there are smiles, though hearts there be 

Sunless and sad — as fades the port, 
The light-house, isle, and tower, and dome, 

Kindred and friends — a mingled mass — 
And distant roof of ' happy home ' — 

Dwindling, just spied, within the glass. 

High hopes of a return arise, 

In hearts on shore — in hearts at sea ; 
Anticipation marks far-distant skies, 

And makes the Future present be ; 
While sky above and sea below 

Like friends their arms of love unite, 
And waves and clouds, like sisters, go 

Amid a world of silver light. 

That ship is in the ocean-world — 

A world to mariners alone, 
Who love to find their sails unfurled 

Upon the centre of its zone. — 
And now she gaily sails along — 

But three days has she been at sea, 
But three nights has the wind-god's song 

Moaned through her cordage dismally. 

The fourth morn breaks — the golden sun 

His bright beams sheds from out the east, 
And gilds the waves, whose bright forms run 

Like crowds of fairies to a feast ; 
And purple clouds are growing light 

Far over on the eastern sky, 
Nor longer take strange shapes to fright — 

Nor longer vex the helmsman's eye. 
12* 



138 THE ICEBERG. 

The twilight of the fourth night came, 

And vanished when the burning moon 
Went up the sky with reddening flame — 

And vanished, oh, alas ! too soon. 
For sleep — deep sleep soon bound the crew, 

While onward sailed the ship so fast, 
Above her prow the spray she threw — 

A silver bow around her mast. 

No fear was at the helmsman's heart, 

No form he saw upon the main, 
He mused, as one who did depart, 

In fancy, from his home again. 
One moment ! — and strange fear arose, 

Hope changed to dark and wild despair. 
O'er the proud ship the waters close — 

An Iceberg whelmed each mortal there I 

Then southward moved it calmly on, 

Its peaks translucent — and like gold 
Amid a bed of jewels shone 

Its ribs of ice — of height untold. — 
Ah ! Hope shall look for many a day, 

Waiting to see that proud ship's sail, 
And friends shall for its safety pray — 

But hope and prayer will not avail ! 



139 



VENETIAN BALCONY SONG. 

MUSIC BY E. E. MARCY. 

I see — I see a bright — bright star 

Upon the moon-lit sea — 
Oh no ! it is the gondola 

Which brings my love to me ; 
For gaily — gaily now it flies, 

Nor heeds it yon deep sea, 
While notes of love with richness rise, 

Those notes how dear to me. 

Ah me — ah me ! no brighter star 

Could in my vision be 
Than my own love's light gondola 

Upon the moonlit sea, 
Where brightly — brightly gleams each oar 

The rippling waves among, 
While turn the boatmen to the shore, 

And sounds my lover's song. 

Those notes — those notes are dearer far 

Now floating o'er the sea, 
Than beams from off the pilot-star 

To mariners can be. 
But gaily — gaily comes my star, 

My lover's form I. see — 
How sweetly sounds his light guitar ! 

6 1 come my love to thee. ' 



140 



VARIETIES OF SCENERY AND OF LIFE. 

Wisdom and spirit of the Universe! 

Thou soul that art the eternity of thought! 

And givest to forms and images a breath 

An everlasting motion ! not in vain, 

By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 

Of childhood, didst thou intertwine for me 

The passions that build up our human soul, 

Nor with the mean and vulgar works of man : — 

But with high objects, with enduring things, 

With Life and Nature. Wordsworth. 

An author of some note has remarked, that c the in- 
equalities of nature may not be more pleasing to the eye, 
than are the varieties of life to form and strengthen the 
character. ? The variety in the character, and conse- 
quently in the business of men, is admirably calculated 
to give the mind many teachings. To observe, and to 
form judgments by our observations, is a great pleasure 
— nay, it is a benefit ; and to have many objects on 
which to make our observations, is equally pleasurable 
and beneficial. Man is by nature endowed with an in- 
quisitive spirit, and is gifted with the blessing of an insa- 
tiable curiosity ; a question it may be, whether it be a 
blessing, but we think if carefully and properly managed, 
it will always prove such ; yet we cannot wonder at its 
rendering its possessor an object of disgust, when it is 
applied improperly. If used without consideration and 
carelessly, it cannot proceed from its nobler powers, but 
must be mingled with little, mean impertinences and de- 
sires. Emulous of high rank both of mind and fortune, 
we see persons agitating under the brow of thought, quea- 



VARIETIES OF SCENERY AND OF LIFE- J4J 

tions of utility and interest, — scrutinizing with an almost 
godlike gaze, and judging with an almost godlike judg- 
ment, the motives and actions of human beings ; piling, 
with an assiduous industry, reason on reason, fact on 
fact, and motive on motive, to prove a fixed law, and 
after proving a fixed law, governing themselves accord- 
ingly. Thus it is with the study of character — a study 
not uninteresting, — a study whose utility need not be 
demonstrated by logical reasoning, but by the fact that 
men generally, perhaps we may say without exception, 
are students in its exalted and ennobling range. Certainly 
all study it, except such as live without any exercise of 
reason, as to the manner in which they should live ; we 
mean, such as pass their lives, as it were like dumb ani- 
mals, exercising only the faculty of instinct. 

If all men should pursue the same sort of business, if 
differences could not be seen in the characters of men, 
life would be a dull and useless round of monotony ; or, 
there would be no such thing as life. To form and 
strengthen the character, nothing is, or can be more ben-» 
eficial, than the multiplicity of incidents in the scenes of 
life. Man is taught by experience, gradually, the man- 
ner in which he is to form his character. He comes into 
the world, an entire stranger to its manners and customs 
— he is soon able, by an almost intuitive ability, to distin- 
guish between the principles of right and wrong. He 
will shun the path where the wicked walk, for scarcely 
ever will he fail to find that a lamentable end is their lot — 
and his observations will teach him much, and more than 
all the truths placed in his books. He can admire the 
path the virtuous have trodden, and he will himself strive 
to be as good in greatness, as great in goodness. By tak- 
ing notice of the strength necessary to sustain one, m 
any particular branch of business, he can judge of his 



142 VARIETIES OF SCENERY AND OF LIFE. 

own capability to do the same ; he may read in every ac- 
tion a lesson, and in every being a character. If he add 
to perseverance the all-powerful force of habit, then he 
will have taken to himself the noble laws of nature, mak- 
ing it almost as certain for him to continue in his course, 
as it is that the sun should rise. 

Since our first parents, who in Eden pressed the heaven- 
created flowers with their unpolluted feet, degenerated 
from their original purity and holiness, the earth is sup- 
posed by many, in some degree to have altered from its 
primeval external appearance. The garden of Eden was 
doubtless the world. It was a paradise where the mind 
and body existed with equal purity, where no violent pas- 
sions excited the maddening brain to deeds of wicked- 
ness, but where all was harmonious, and pure, and beau*- 
tiful ; where the innumerable choirs of birds chanted the 
most delicious notes, and the scenes presented were such 
as that mind alone which was created for such scenes, can 
think of and enjoy. We have said, that the world by many 
is supposed to have been in some degree changed — we 
think they have some reason for the hypothesis, beside 
that of the mere change of the face of the globe. We 
cannot believe that the pure mind could be at rest among 
horrible scenes ; nor, on the other hand, do we believe 
that the wicked mind could exist in a pure place. The 
huge and lofty mountains, the grim, murky, and deformed 
parts of nature, are only suited to passions of the most vir- 
ulent stamp — passions which can no easier be checked 
or chained, than the tremendous cataract can be stiffened 
by the cold. The remark we have quoted seems to imply 
that the eye only is pleased, and that the mind is not 
affected by the scenes of nature. We think otherwise, 
and believe that the providence of the Deity did so create 
the scenes in nature, that they should be adapted to the 



VARIETIES OF SCENERY AND OF LIFE. 143 

different minds of individuals. For, as ho made one ani- 
mal for one part of creation, and another for another part, 
so also did he create various objects; suited to the minds 
of different men. 

We will endeavor to illustrate this remark. The mind 
of Byron stood fixed on a rock, like a wild and sullen 
spirit, unhurt or unintimidated by the thunders and light- 
nings of the skies. It was pleased to revel and play in 
the rugged storms and dreadful dashings of the ocean, or 
delighted to roam in the darkest, blackest, dreariest, and 
most hideous paths of creation. The mind of Wordsworth 
like a gentle spirit, sits, as it were, with its wings folded 
softly on its bosom, gazing on and admiring the simplest 
scenes, marking the gentle murmurings of the brooks, or 
the exquisite tinges of the sunset sky, or listening to the 
hum of an insect. And will any one pretend to say, when 
he plainly sees these differently constituted minds, thus 
seeking their favorite scenes, that the Creator had no de- 
sign to adapt the objects in nature to the impulses of the 
mind ? That not only the eye is pleased, but that the 
mind is strengthened by the contemplation of the works of 
creation, may be proved by the fact, that those individu- 
als who have been brought up in the nursery, and who 
have never been permitted to roam abroad, are least cap- 
able of mingling with the world. How weak, how effem- 
inate, how totally unacquainted with the feelings of man 
is such a one ! Again, how strong, how vivacious and 
intelligent, is that person, whose mind has been awakened 
to a sense of its mighty powers, by viewing the scenes of 
nature and life, while travelling over a great extent of his 
own country, or in visiting foreign lands ! 

We deem it best not to take any more time, in consid- 
ering separately each side of the subject about which we 
are writing, but will for a moment consider them collec- 



144 SONNET. 

tively. What a powerful influence do the scenes of na- 
ture and the varieties of life, combined, have upon man ! 
What is, what can be more powerful ! The contempla- 
tion of character gives the mind knowledge, while the 
scenes of nature strengthen and fix it in the memory. — 
Acting together they exert the very highest influence, and 
while man admires the beauties of the one, and the diver- 
sities of the other, his feelings are elevated ; he begins to 
feel, nay, he begins to know that his mind is immortal, and 
that the earth was created to cherish the powerful shades 
of sensibility which the Creator has bestowed upon him. 



SONNET. 

TURNER'S PALLS, MONTAGUE, BY MOON-LIGHT. 

How still the scene ! save where the waters pour 
Broad, massy sheets of silver far below, 
Amid the gulf whence circling eddies flow 

And revel with a wild, eternal roar ! 

Swift dash the impetuous torrents o'er the rocks — 
Continuous clouds of foam like war-steeds rise, 
And leaping up beneath the stately skies, 

Then plunge and toss on high their necks' white locks. 

Along the marge where turn the waters o'er, 
And at the base where raving billows rush 
Headlong, with mad, interminable gush, 

The mist ascends and strives for heaven to soar. — 

Faint star-light gleams flash on the glorious scene, 

And deck a grand pavillion for night's advancing queen ! 



145 



TEN PARAGRAPHS. 



Number I . 



No man need to be unhappy twho wills to be other- 
wise. Reflection and a little caution are the wings 
which bear us to the realms of happiness. The pursuit 
of happiness is not vain. People have tried to make it 
so, but they cannot. Every man is happy who has a re- 
solute determination, and whose practice is, to act ac- 
cording to the decisions of his master — Conscience. — 
This master is a most fruitful friend — a kind adviser. — 
He is the archimage, who will not only show us, but will 
place us in a world of joys and delights, if we act at his 

bidding. 

II. 

In the paths of many men there are obstacles ; but 
these obstacles, if it is so willed, are as mere phantasms. 
As you have seen the sun, in a morning of Spring, rising 
up over the mountains, with an undazzling yet golden 
splendor, like that of the moon, seemingly wrestling with 
dark, rough, purple clouds which would obscure it, and 
in a little while freeing itself, and passing upward with a 
dazzling brilliancy into a cloudless sky — even so will 
you sometimes observe a man, of determined mind and 
moral strength, who will, though he at first exhibit but 
little lustre, make all obstacles vanish before him, and 
will pass on through the world, with a glory so brilliant 
that men cannot gaze upon him to find imperfections. 

13 



146 TEN PARAGRAPHS. 

III. 

Men are deceitful. There are but few who will not 
help themselves before they do their neighbors. Friend- 
ship is rare between men. They who are friends out- 
wardly, often have malice in the heart. Some men, for 
their own ends, may be found clinging to a person 
whose power and influence is great, but when the hour of 
adversity comes, there frill be a desertion — as you, per- 
chance, may have seen men gazing on a dial-plate when 
the sun was shining, but who have turned away when the 
clouds have shut from it the sun-light. 

IV. 

Men sometimes deceive themselves. They are apt to 
turn the bright side toward them. Some look upon their 
own matters selfishly. You have perceived, sometimes, 
a man looking at the flame in his lantern, instead of turn- 
ing the light from him, upon his pathway. It is best to 
throw the light on your path ; occasionally, however, it 
may be well to see that the wick is in good order. 

V. 

Men magnify themselves often. They will make every 
thing appear well that is their own — they forget that they 
c measure by their morning shadows. ? 

VI. 

The consequence of a knowledge of little matters is 
wonderful. Even the smallest facts and truths, are of 
great importance to a person who does not observe them, 
and treasure them in his memory. Little things are 
great, till they are known ; as we become acquainted 
with them, they lose their greatness, though not their 
worth. What an ill-judging race is ours ! There is no- 



TEN PARAGRAPHS. 147 

thing which passes before us, of which we, at first, have 
correct notions. The actions of men, the motives of their 
minds, and their rule of conduct, are many times falsely 
estimated, both to their and our detriment. Whether the 
world will ever be happier in this respect than it now is, 
may be doubted. How much better would men appear, 
if, throwing aside their prejudices, they would ever speak 
according to the dictates of reason ! Nothing, perhaps, 
will be found more disgusting, than to see a man governed 
by prejudices. We always hate this in others, why may 
we not rid ourselves of its loathsomeness ? 

VII. 

Reputation is easily acquired. A thousand things will 
help to obtain it — bad means, as well as good. You may 
find friends who will bestow it upon you, and there are 
those, not friends, whom you may hire to sound your name 
abroad. Reputation is worth nothing to a man, unless he 
is truly great. There is a glory, beyond mere reputation, 
which, when it encircles a name, hallows it and preserves 
it through all future time. 

VIII. 

There are those, indeed, whom the world calls vain, 
who are not so. There is a desire in some men to have 
their real characters known, and therefore speak for them- 
selves, and with no more than perfect justice. Vanity, 
and a spirit so sensitive as to fear, lest merit or good feel- 
ings should go neglected, are two different things. 

IX. 

Posterity looks with far different eyes on the actions 
of men, than do the people who live in the same age. — 
Great and good men receive their right distinction after 
death, though they may have been calumniated while 



148 TE N PARAGRAPHS. 

living — and bad men, who have received undue praise 
while living, come down to their true level after death. 
A bad man's good reputation is, therefore, good for no- 
thing. What is nobility ? It is that greatness of the 
soul — that sensibility of moral feeling — that honesty of 
principle — that ascendency over weakness of mind, 
which exalts the man ; and not the trappings which 
cover the material body. To be truly noble, we must be 
truly honest ; we must not boast of the deeds of our an- 
cestors as reflecting any credit on ourselves, but by every 
laudable exertion strive to rise above the vanity and low 
ambition which are the guides of millions ; we must put 
no dependence in hereditary titles, but if it should happen 
that we should possess these, let us not fall short of that 
degree of nobility which we seem to inherit, but rather 
add to our talent, instead of hiding it as in a napkin. — 
That man must possess a weak mind who thinks that he 
is superior to his neighbor, because his ancestors were 
celebrated. These distinctions of pedigree will do well 
enough for beasts, but for rational creatures there should 
be no such degrees ; every man should be judged accord- 
ing to his deeds. 

X. 

Care and Imprudence are two opposites. In the world 
we are placed above a cataract. With care, we may sus- 
tain ourselves with pleasure and safety, on the stream 
above it, upon which it is the lot of all to sail, but if im- 
prudent, we may be dashed, ere we are aware, and before 
there is time to escape, into the abyss from which there 
is no returning. 



149 



O MY HEART ! ALL THY GLADNESS. 

my Heart ! — all thy gladness 
Springs from pain that has fled, 

As the Day dawns from darkness, 
When the Night has far sped : 

But sweet Joy shall no longer 
Be a phantom-like fay — 

It shall dwell with me ever, 
As the Light with the Day. 

1 will make myself happy ! 
Through the Day and the Night, 

The bright eyes of sweet Pleasure 
Shall be gladdening my sight ; 

And my deeds shall no longer 
By a thraldom be bound — 

In my mind's own deep gladness 
My light heart shall be found ! 

13* 



150 



THE DEATH UNTO THE WORLD. 

It is a pleasant thing to die and feel 
Our last wild pulses throbbing, while no seal 
Of Death is placed upon our placid brow ; 
The soul in quiet looks within itself, 
And, as within a mirror, sees the shapes — 
Some dim, some palpable with steady light — 
That stand like statues in the vista there. 
The world — where Art and Genius long have made 
Their beauteous congregations please the mind, 
Where coldness, villainy, deceit and wrong 
Triumphant in exemption yet uncloyed, 
Lie like a brood from hell, and laugh and shriek 
O'er shattered urns where once pure minds have dwelt, 
Is not seen there. — Its forms are all concealed ; 
And not a thought is mirrored in that face 
Which is not stamped with more of heaven than earth. 

And thus, it is a pleasant thing to die ; 
For countless shades pass o'er that mirror's face ; 
And if man's spirit deign to gaze on that 
Which ever will delight — the object stands, 
While rushes through the soul a secret joy. 
Oh, I have gazed — and with unwearied eyes — 
More heavenly perfect never were my joys ! 
And that which most I love and ever shall — 
The mind of one as fair as heaven's own sky — 
W ith mine seemed looking for another world, 
A purer dwelling place above the earth. 



THE DEATH UNTO THE WORLD. \Ffi 

In vain, mid mortals, can we find a home 

Save in the savage wilderness beyond 

The dark broad mountains, where the waters clash 

And rave amid a dreary solitude. 

*T is true that sometimes here, when twilight hues 

Or ruddy morn have shed their glories round, 

Within the shadow of some broad, dark tree, 

We 've sat and contemplated there the heaven 

On earth which minds can sometimes find — but like 

The passing of a silver cloud at night, 

Or apparition of the glorious sun 

When all the sky is black with thunder clouds, 

That heaven has vanished from our sight, and we 

Have wept to think how very brief that death 

Is, which is called The Death unto the World. 

It is — it is a pleasant thing to die, 
To cast away the mortal forms and thoughts, 
Which cluster round man here and cramp his soul, 
To look behind the veil of mortal woe, 
To leave the world forgotten and shut out, 
To gaze on perfectness and truth, and see 
And love a place more fitted for the mind, 
A heavenly garden where the soul can bloom 
In endless freshness and in quiet bliss. 



152 



SONG. 

Written after reading Bernardin St Pierre's charming story of Paul 
and Virginia. It has been an endeavor to shadow forth the senti- 
ments, which may be supposed to have glowed in the bosoms of that 
interesting and unfortunate couple — whose happiness was perfect 
while they were ignorant of the world, and whose misery came 
with the attainment of its knowledge. 

Far away let us fly to the shore of the ocean. 

Where the sea-gulls skim through the warm summer air, 

Where the billows are rolling in mingled commotion 
O'er diamonds and pearls which are under them there. 

Let us roam o'er the beach where the sea shells are mocking 
With mimicking murmurs the voice of the sea — 

Let us sit under trees, whose high branches are rocking 
The cradled young eagles so loved by the free. 

Let us sail on the lake when the morning is breaking 
And throwing its splendor o'er sky and o'er hill, 

When the keel of our boat a soft music is making, 
With wavelets as tinkling as those of the rill. 

Let us walk near the hills, where the cloud-shade o'erflushes 
The bright silver streamlet which bends like a zone, 

Where the green, mossy fount with bright crystal outgushes, 
Displaying a beauty it ever must own. 

Let us stand, while the Evening in Day's embrace lingers, 

And fondly and solemnly bids it adieu, 
Oh ! then I will twine thy curling locks in my fingers, 

And tell that my heart will forever be true. 



FOUR SCENES. 153 

And wherever we be, or in sorrow or pleasure, 
Thy hand shall be pressed with affection in mine, 

And wherever we be, and whatever our treasure, 
Our souls shall be twined, like the oak and the vine, 



FOUR SCENES, 



Dark clouds are clustering, 
Rain-drops are mustering, 
Wild torrents are flowing, 
Strong storm-winds are blowing ; 
Now all is over and gone ! 

The sun-light is shining, 
All objects entwining, 
The Rain-bow is bending, 
Sweet Hope is descending 
To guide us heavenward on ! 

The sun is declining, 
The pale moon is shining, 
Broad rivers are gleaming, 
In white moon light streaming ; — 
Such evenings seldom have been ! 

The moon is declining, 
Now rich stars are shining, 
Dark willows are weeping, 
O'er spangled lakes sleeping — 
'T is Night ! — a beautiful scene ! 



154 



TO MY SISTER, 

ON THE DEATH OF OUR MOTHER. 

Sister, weep not ! let not thy tears 

Reveal thy soul's deep anguish ; 
But smile with hope that ever cheers — 

Let not thy fond heart languish ! 
Though be severed the silken chain 

That bound us to our mother, 
Yet weep not ! all our tears are vain ; 

Sister, — believe thy brother. 

Sister, — weep not ! for tears are vain — 

They cannot soothe thy sorrow ; 
They are falling as falls the rain, 

Unheeded as the morrow. 
Though the silver cord be twain, 

Though the golden bowl be broken — 
Sister, weep not ! each tear is vain, 

Each is but sorrow's token. 

Sister, weep not ! let not thine eyes 

In fruitless tears be shrouded ; 
Oh, weep not, though within thee lies 

A heart with sadness clouded. 
Nay, weep not, Sister, though thy tears 

Reveal thy soul's deep anguish ; 
But smile with hope that ever cheers — * 

Let not thy fond heart languish ! 



155 



THE PRISONER. 

In a deep dungeon, near the Bridge of Sighs, 
Where the dark towers of fallen Venice rise, 
A noble youth, two hundred years ago, 
Began to count his days — till, white as snow, 
His hair hung long and loose upon his breast, 
And hid his eyes, already dim with rest ; 
For sixty years had passed, and not a ray 
Of cheering light had fallen in his way. 
All objects were the same, but still he made 
A thousand objects by his fancy's aid. 
The little pitcher standing on the floor ; 
The shaded bolt-heads shining on the door ; 
The little stand where food was sometimes found ; 
The hinges huge which seldom gave a sound ; 
The massive bars, the iron gratings high, 
Where air came in, but never brought the sky ; 
The low, straw bed ; the hard, ill-shapen chair, 
Were all the objects, though a thousand there ! 
And here he sate, all silent and unknown, 
His memory living, but his hopes all flown, — 
Till, by sweet justice, he was one day free, 
And breathed again the air of liberty. 

He left the prison-door, he sought the street, 
But vainly sought a relative to meet. — 
No one he knew, no face his eye could cheer, 
No voice could play upon his long shut ear. 
Again he sought the prison's cheerless room, 
And joys remembered rose amid its gloom ; 



156 THE PRISONER. 

Those thousand sights again he painted there, 
Vainly those objects he had sought elsewhere. 
Suggestion's power revealed the hallowed train, 
And made his heart with hope to leap again. 
There in that cell he sate, and calmly gazed, 
Till thought his aged brain had almost crazed ; 
Visions of by-gone years before him came, 
Girt with the light of fancy's purest flame. 
Nor from that spot could all entreaty raise 
The poor old man, to quit the prison's maze : — 
Though urged to go, he still would captive dwell, 
Contented to remain within his narrow cell. 
By day he strove to purify his mind, 
By night he dreamed of pleasure all refined ; 
Turned, too, his thoughts beyond the sphere of time, 
And gazed on things eternally sublime. 
He lived, until a few more suns had shone, 
When life and reason, each, had left its throne. 
Before he died a heavenly hope was fired — 
In hope he looked to God, in hope expired * 



157 



TIMOTHY SNAFFLETON. 

Timothy Snaffleton was one of your moderns ; the 
son of whom, nobody knew or cared, except a few inquis- 
itive women, who wished to satisfy their curiosity. His 
dress was a sufficient passport to any place, and on that 
he chiefly relied. He might have been taken for a law- 
yer or a doctor ; for he had just Latin and Greek enough 
to pass for ' something. ' He might be often seen lean- 
ing back in a chair, in some fashionable bookstore, or 
perched in the stage box at the performace of a new 
piece. He wore whiskers, and of course attracted the 
attention of the ladies — and they thought him a mighty 
one : but they were mistaken ; he had sense, but was 
an idler and an c odd man ' — a lounger with a memory 
strong enough to hold a few dozen common-place notions 
gathered from the sentimentalists, and he never repeated 
the same idea to the same person oftener than three times 
a week. He had a tolerable fund of words, which, by 
the way, every fool possesses now-a-days, that served to 
make people think him wise. When any important lec- 
ture on law, medicine, or the like, was to be given, and 
those who were students at these branches were admitted, 
he would march up to the door with the confidence of 
Arion in the Brazen Mask, and, if asked if he was a 

student at , would reply that he was attending to 

that study — and then push into the middle of the as- 
sembly, to the no little astonishment of the audience. — 
In a word, Tim was desirous of being considered c some- 
thing ' — the very reason why he should not have been 
considered anything. 
14 



J58 TIMOTHY SNAFFLETON. 

It was the last summer that I saw him at the gallery 
of paintings ; and it was said he was then an altered 
man ; but even at that time such was his impudence, that 
he would speak to a stranger with as much familiarity as 
he would to a particular acquaintance. I was sitting on 
one of the settees. He watched me, and I him. Pres- 
ently he introduced himself, and handing me his card of 
address, invited me to call and see him. 

I did not hear of the man for a long time after this. A 
few months since, he sent for me. Taking his card, 
which I had preserved, after winding round many cor- 
ners, I arrived at his dwelling. Imagine a building 
which years ago might have been painted yellow, with a 
gate in front, the upper part of which is railed in such a 
manner, that within you can descry a plank walk, with 
grass growing in unmolested beauty on either side — a 
front door, the knocker of which, formerly of shining 
brass, now presents a more bronze-like appearance — a 
house of the old style, with garret windows. I entered 
the gate, and after knocking some time, the door was 
opened by an old man who stared me in the face, and 
asked me if I was the gentleman his master had sent for. 
Replying in the affirmative, I was directed to his room. 
I knocked at the door, and a hollow voice within bade me 
enter. On a couch before the fire, lay the victim of 
sickness. I advanced toward him, took him by the hand, 
and inquired about his condition. 

1 Poorly, poorly, ' said he, ' I am not far from the 
grave. I have ever been a silly fellow — been deceiving 
myself ; I have sought for friends, but have found none. 
When one looks back upon his past life, and sees how he 
has fooled away his precious time, it is dreadful ! I sent 

for you, Mr S , to give you the care of my concerns. 

I have some property, which you will dispose of accord- 



WRITTEN IN DEJECTION. J59 

ing to my will. Open that closet door, if you please, and 
take that desk out. That desk and its contents I give to 
you ; but do not open it till after I am dead. ' 

I saw plainly that he would live but a few days. I 
thanked him for the gift, and promised him all the assist- 
ance I was able to render. I visited him every day till 
his death. 

On opening the desk which was given me, I found a 
sum of money and some papers. Among the manuscripts 
I found one paper with this docket : — ' Confession of a 
Murder ! ' I was shocked — but opened the sheet and 
read as follows : 

1 The worst of murders have I committed. I have 
been a murderer early and late. Let the heir of this tell 
how wretchedly I lived, how wretchedly I died. Oh ! 
my murder is terrible ! — I have killed — killed — let 
every one take warning — I have killed, often killed 
Time I ' 



WRITTEN IN DEJECTION. 

The heart that trusts to Life's delusive bark, 
Or thinks to feed on some delicious joy, 

May picture in Hope's glass some kindling spark 
Which clearly burns : — it burns but to destroy. 

Hope is the tyrant — Tantalus of mind, 
Whose golden chalice wearies aye the lip ; 

It holds but painted nectar — and we find 
'Tis mockery, when we the most would sip. 



160 



SONG OF THE LIGHT. 

I came from that God, whose creating nod 

Brought forth the heavens and earth, 
And old Darkness fled from his chaos bed, 

As I came with silent mirth ; 
And then there was lent to the firmament, 

And to each created thing, 
That white, brilliant shade, which is ever made 

By my waving, silver wing. 

I first saw the feature of each living creature, 

And beheld each form arise, 
I first saw the moon, and the sun at noon, 

Pass over upon the skies ; 
And all things were dark, till an expansive spark 

Rolled off from my tireless pinion, 
Displaying the world, as its lustre unfurled, 

Till it shone a breathing dominion. 

I fled from the cloud which on Sinai bowed, 

When the Lord from heaven came, 
And each Israelite stood mute at the sight, 

When I gleamed within the flame — 
Which rose in the smoke, when the thunder broke, 

Like chariot sounds from afar, — 
And with lightning flew through the sky's dark blue, 

More swift than a falling star ! 

I went on before, when on Jordan's shore 
The sons of the prophets stood, 



SONG OF THE LIGHT. \Q\ 

And my wings did float when Elijah smote 

The bright and sundering flood. — 
And I shone afar, when Elijah's car 

And horses of fire flew, 
Which were darkly rolled in the whirlwind's fold, 

Till Light from my wings I threw. 

When Belshazzar's lords, o'er his banquet boards, 

Drank from Judah's cups divine, 
I touched every face with a glowing grace, 

And lit up the sparkling wine. 
Then across the wall of that banquet hall, 

While quivered Belshazzar's lip, 
I flew with the light which dazzled his sight, 

And wrote with my pinion's tip. 

I went through the air, when the star was there, 

Which shone when Jesus was born, 
I stood o'er the place, while the Savior's face 

Beamed forth on that hallowed morn ; 
And I rose in view, and soft radiance threw 

O'er that low but holy place, 
When the shepherd band, at an angel's command, 

Bowed over his infant face. 

When wild, wanton Mirth came over the earth, 

And the Son of God was slain, 
While the startled sky as it rolled on high, 

Seemed dissevering with its pain ; 
And Darkness came out, and breathed round about, 

With black and shame bearing mien, 
I fled far away, encompassed by Day, 

And left the hideous scene. 
*14 



1$% A FABLE. 

I flit o'er the bow, with a golden glow, 

When the rain pours down with power, 
And my wing shines under the storm-howling thunder, 

And gleams in each cloud-built bower ; 
At the Morn's soft dawn, I dance o'er each lawn, 

And the sky with purple clouded, 
Diffusing rich gold as my wings unfold, 

Which Darkness and Night have shrouded. 

My pinions I sweep far down in the deep, 

And silver the Ocean's floor, 
Strewn o'er with men's bones and with precious stones ■ 

Then upward to heaven I soar ! 
Then down on bright streams, with beautiful gleams, 

And o'er the soft flowing fountains, 
I lift my bright wing, and gild every thing — 

Trees, hills, lakes, rivers, and mountains. 



A FABLE. 

THE SQUIRREL AND HIS MORNING VISITOR. 

One glorious morning in Spring as I stood upon the 
summit of a high hill that commanded a view of the sur- 
rounding country, I heard at a little distance from me the 
chirp of a squirrel ; and on examination discovered that 
this companion and brother of the grey gentle folks of the 
wood was in close conversation with an animal which, 
after observation considerably minute, proved to be a 
woodchuck. 

c Wisp — wisp, ' squealed the squirrel, c thou clumsy 
woodchuck come not here to disturb me when I am dis- 



A FABLE 



163 



posing of my breakfast. Hie thee old fellow to yon 
turnip-field or cabbage-yard, and stir thy lazy self before 
the farmer is up to shoot thee. Begone ! thy room is 
better than thy company ! ' 

1 Crag-ag, crag-ag, J growled the woodchuck, ' thou 
shouldst not talk to thy betters, thus : safer would it be 
for thee to hold thy tongue. Instead of sitting so erect 
and wise upon that tree, thou shouldst come down and 
place thyself in the shade — the sunshine may make thee 
a victim. ? 

c Begone ! I say, ' ejaculated the squirrel, c thinkest 
thou that I am to lose the good of this sunshine while 
thou keepest thyself there in thy hole — afraid to put thy 
head out through fear ? No ! silly woodchuck I shall 
keep in the sunshine as long as I please ; and thcu vag- 
abond mayest go down into thy hole. ' At this speech 
the woodchuck drew in his head and left the squirrel to 
his breakfasting. 

Presently I saw the farmer's son, stealing along the 
hedge, and up the hill, and soon the report of his gun 
brought me where he stood. He was turning over the 
squirrel in his hands, whose blood poured out from the 
shot wounds over his silver-grey skin, and white breast ; 
and in his death struggle he shut his teeth together on the 
utterance ' Fool ' — which he applied to himself. 

I passed on, and said to myself, ' how many there are 
that are ruined forever by proudly pressing whenever an 
opportunity occurs, into the sunshine. Let me, at least, 
live in the shade. ' 



164 



LOVE. 

PROM 'RALPH, THE ■WANDERER. 1 

O strange is love ! Like Earth's broad ocean 

It has its deep, dark mysteries — 
Its heaving under-wave — emotion ; 

And only he that dwells there sees 
What are the courses of the forms 

That swarm amid its changeful scenes — 
5 T is he alone that knows the storms 

That threaten or the calm that weans 
The dwellers in its kingdom forth 
From the cold regions of the north 
Or south, to that warm current, where 
Blessed groves and palaces appear. 

O strange is love ! Like the deep ocean 
It has its monsters — things that seem 

What they are not ; and whose commotion, 
Strife and stern contentions teem 

With evils such as make the place 

That should be fair — a ground to race 

And wrestle in — a gloomy hall, 

Arena broad, whose blood must pall 

The senses of the delicate, 

Who should alone go through its gate. 

O strange is love ! Like the bright ocean 
Its has its children — those that know 



love. 165 

And trust its depths, and love the motion 

Ot its tossing waters ! which flow 
Onward — bearing their barks away 
To the calm quiet of some bay 
Within whose confines they may spend 

A life of peace and pleasantness. 
And sweet companionship there lend 

To that they must delight to bless. 

O strange is love ! Like the wide ocean 

It has its wild adventurers 
Who love it not — but in devotion 

To wealth, which all their heart's blood stirs. 
They, pilgrim-like, pass o'er the waste 

And fondly trust to win its gold, 
To sip its nectar, and to taste 

The spices o'er its bosom rolled, 
And heed not gales nor tempests ■ — though 

Along the shore proud wrecks be cast, 
And winds and waves above them flow — 

Their first — their best friends and their last ! 



166 



THE DYING YEAR'S ADDRESS TO THE SOUL. 

Look back into the Past, O Soul, look back ! 
What hast thou seen within its black, or dim, 
Or gleaming ocean-depths, through which thy wing 
Hath raised thee up ? O Soul, why hast thou now 
Come up to hear the midnight knell of Time 
Dim sounding o'er the solitary waste ? 
Why art thou thus foredoomed to know a pause 
Like this, and hear the knell of moments past 
Of hours, days, months, and years, perchance misspent ? 
Is it a type of Resurrection, Soul ? 
Why — when the year has circled out its course — 
Why dost thou stand above the crowded Past, 
And toward the Future strain thy sightless eyes ? 
Why on the waveless sea, around thee spread, 
Lookst thou abroad to catch some wavering form, 
Or raise a silvery wave to glad thy sight ? 
Why think to find a haven above the flood* 
That is the treasure-house of all the Past, 
And fear to gaze down through the depths below ? 

O Soul ! look back into the Past, look back ! 
Down through its dreary charnel chambers, look ! 
What thing of real good, which thou didst make 
Is treasured there ? Since thy young thought first knew 
Thy being's act, what hast thou done of good ? 
Nought — nought ! — O Soul, I counsel thee afresh. — 
Be thou, henceforth, aware of ill ! Be good, 
And let thy good go forth for humankind ; 
So when thy wing hath passed this orbit's verge — 
Thy pale flesh-covering fallen off, all dust, 
Thou shalt anew, ay, and for ever, take 
Another orbit, and awake, in strains 
Sublime, the praise of thy Creator — God ! 



167 



THE NIGHTMAIR. 

Thou hateful mocker of my sleep ! 

Who art engaged in making 
The ugliest phantoms near me creep — 

Which ever keep me waking : 
Thou horrid monster — goggle eye ! 

With arms that with their binding 
Keep me, athirst, from waters nigh, 

The while thy tushes grinding : 
Thou squalid crook-back ! black and foul, 

That on my bosom dancing, 
Seemest a black or gray screech-owl, 

Or like a demon prancing ; 
I curse thee — curse thee, day and night — 

Curse thee when I'm not sleeping, 
Curse thee, detester of the light, 

On thee be curses heaping : 
And with thy curses, may swift pains 

And fire without cessation, 
Burn liquid hot throughout thy veins, — 

A horrible vexation ! 

Thy murders long and bloody are, 

I call — but am not calling : 
Or when thou dost the shutter bar, 

I fall — but am not falling ; 
Thou makest tigers leap and chase, 

And while they near are chasing, 
I 'm kept upon the shortest pace, 

While thou run'st backward, facing : 



163 THE NIGHTMAIR. 

Thou makest gold around to shine 
And on the ground to glitter, 

And when I think it all is mine, 
Thou turnest it to litter. 

Ever tormenting demon, hence ! 

Hence, ever never destroying, 
Hence thou god of malice prepense, 

Which thou art ever employing. 
Sweet Sleep doth hate thy squalid form, 

For thou art ever throwing, 
Some direful scene or direful storm — 

Or something else bestowing. 
Thou often under the eyelids peep 

Of me, the bewildered poet, 
But I think I no more will sleep — 

That is, — if I but know it ! 



169 



LADY 'S SOIREE. 

NO. I. 

REPORTED CONVERSATIONS. 

Never did Lady 's Rooms hold a better congregation 

of the fashionables and literati. Never before was present 
such an array at one meeting. It was a glorious sight 
that ! The shaded lamps flung a rich, soft light over ev- 
ery object. It was paradisiacal, indeed, there, in those 
Rooms ! — whether the visitors stood, or walked, or were 
seated. Those elegant carpets — it was like promenading 
on a grassy terrace in the mid summer, to move upon them ! 
Those cushioned chairs - — it was like resting on a cloud 
of rose leaves, to lounge on one ! Those lofty and spacious 
rooms — it was like roaming through the aisles of Elysi- 
um 3 to saunter there — those lamps were so imitative of a 
delicate moonlight — those walls were so like to the ' em- 
bowering trees ' — those ceilings so resembled the blue 
arch of heaven — and those canary-birds' voices were so 
wandering in their echo-chases. It was like being out in 
the wide fields on a balmy night, with choice spirits for 
companions, so truly imitative had our Lady caused her 
Rooms to be made, of ' out of doors' scenery.' 

Philip Rodney was there, and Charles Wanshaw, and 
T. S. Parnoe, and O. O. Carteno, and Dr. T. N. Om- 
rest, and J. M. Sterne, and many other gentlemen whose 
names will be introduced in the * course of time.' 

Mrs. Robert T. Maydon, and Mrs. Washington I. 
Ranton, and Mrs. Ph. Rodney, and Mrs. O. O. Carteno, 
and Mrs. R. R. Sharnon, and Mrs. L. R. Laning, and 
the two Misses Laning, and their cousin, Miss Maria 
Ashton, and Miss Amelia Lownd, and Miss Matilda 
15 



170 LADY — »S SOIREE. 

Madeline Theresa Thornton, and many other ladies, mar- 
ried and single, whose superb criticisms, remarks and 
theories, will introduce them into the world with c due 
ceremony.' It may be as well to remark that Mrs. Robt. 
T. Maydon's precocious son, Charles Carolinius Carrol 
Maydon with many other young Masters and Misses were 
present to add to the felicitous passing off of the evening. 

But our limits will not permit us to mention the thou- 
sand things that were there, for the corporeal natures of 
the visitors. At present, we must content ourself and 
our readers with the description of the intellectual treats 
presented, and received, and treasured up. 

Our Lady, with her characteristic grace and dignity of 
manner as — dressed in a beautiful, sky-colored satin 
frock — she advanced to the centre table which reflected 
in its polished top the Annuals — American and English, 
for the last and present seasons — addressed the bystand- 
ers, and requested them to endeavor to amuse themselves 
by turning over the plates and books, with which the table 
abounded. 

Mr. Sterne, Dr. Omrest and Mr. Carteno, having re- 
tired into a corner of one of the rooms, out of the way of 
the jam, were discoursing eloquently. 

Mr. Sterne, it should be understood, is a lover of large 
words ; of course, if he use some improperly, it is noth- 
ing more than is to be expected, and it is no fault of the 
reporter. Mr. Sterne's portrait — full length — is after 
this flourish. Five feet, six inches high — face resembling 
J. Q. A's, once a President of the U. S., but his nose rather 
more inclined to redness. Rather corpulent and impor- 
tant. His mind as big as the eye of a clever sized needle, 
and his knowledge so extensive that it can be compressed 
into a thimble. His eye — for he has but one — in the 
mention of another, should not be forgotten. It is a little 



LADY S SOIREE. 171 

twinkler set in an eyebrow arched sometimes, but gene- 
rally still and uncurved. 

' It is becoming quite literary/ said Dr. Omrest, and 
he was speaking of the Pearl — the jewel ! 

c Ay, ay, the Editor must look forward through the vis- 
tee that is before him with the pleasures of retrospection. 
So magnificent a display of litery attainmunt will meet 

with posthumous patronage. Lady exhibits choice 

predilections in displaying its elegant topography on her 
table. All ladies of extinction place it on their tables ; 
and its music is always an accompaniment to the Piano 
Forte,' said Mr. Sterne. 

This great speech so replete with sound sense, although 
rather extravagant in style, caused some inward laugh- 
ter ; but Dr. Omrest and Mr. Carteno knew their con- 
versationist too well, and had heard too many of his blun- 
ders before, to laugh outright. 

c You are right Mr. Sterne,' said the Doctor, c a paper 
published among us like the Pearl should be patronized, 
especially when its proprietor is expending a great deal 
of money to make it worthy of the city.' Mr. Carteno 
joined with the Doctor. He said, a paper which has been 
so established, and which has obtained so many encomi- 
ums abroad, should not be forgotten at home. For my 
part, I shall hereafter ask for the Pearl in every house 
where I visit ; and if I find it not, I shall strongly suspect 
the family to be a patron of the Penny Magazine.' 

' Ha ! ha ! quite severe ! The vile Republican de- 
serves it however. It is strange that any person of sense 
subscribes for that costly, petty, penny picture book. If 
Americans must support picture books, let them support 
those made by their countrymen, and not the stuff that is 
served up for them from the English Press. 

8 There are some pretty, pictoral embellishments in 



172 LADY 'S SOIREE. 

those works ; but I do not think that any confabulator can 
justify the readin,' said Mr. Sterne. 

' Well, well, I hope that our Pearl will always shine 
as it does now,' answered Mr. Carteno. 

* # * * * # 

Here we were obliged, as several ladies advanced near 
us, to step back ' a couple or two,' and we could not hear 
the remainder of the conversation ; but we were equally 
delighted, and in a moment equally attentive to the re- 
marks of Miss Ashton and Mr. Wanshaw, who were very 
earnestly engaged upon their subject. 

6 Mr. Benjamin,' said Miss Ashton, 'has a mind of high 
order — of high cultivation. He looks on every thing 
with a poet's soul, and has a strong reverence for genius. 
I am very glad that he is interested in the German lan- 
guage in good earnest. To superintend such works as 
the Life of Schiller, which he has so happily done, re- 
quires acute perception and steady industry, and I am 
quite glad that so correct a scholar as Mr. Benjamin, is 
engaged in such good business.' 

6 So am I,' said Mr. Wanshaw, who, though not very 
well versed in literature, had confidence enough to make 
up for defects of any kind ; and who turned the point at 
which Miss Ashton was aiming, — by saying c Mr. Benja- 
min has written some very fine verses — very fine. I ad- 
mire his poetry !' Miss Ashton's criticism was quite op- 
posite in its character to that of Wanshaw. His was like 
the dipping in of a sea-bird for food — Miss Ashton's was 
like that of the pearl-diver, going to the very depths and 
wrestling for the beautiful and treasure-worthy. 

' His poetry is indeed of a lofty character,' said Miss 
Ashton, c I have always admired the freshness of his epi- 
thets, the high polish of his verse. Do you not, Mr. 
Wanshaw, think that his poetry is singularly distinct in its 



LADY S SOIREE. 173 

colorings ? I can think of nothing its inward character 
resembles so much as the clear, denned sound of a tuning 
fork !' 

* It has somewhat of that character,' said Wanshaw, 
endeavoring to exhibit some taste for the resemblance 
which Miss Ashton had metaphysically detected. 

' Have you seen the Life of Schiller ?' asked Miss 
Ashton. 

' I have not heard of it, 5 exclaimed Wanshaw. 

1 Have not heard of it ?' ejaculated Miss Ashton in 
surprise, ■ why, I thought that it had been purchased by 
every literary gentleman before this time ! ' 

Wanshaw was slightly confused, but said, ' the work 
must be very interesting ! ' 

1 Interesting ! ' ejaculated the lady, ' it is quite inter- 
esting, I assure you ; and I advise you to read it. It is a 
delightful work !' 

A loud buzzing, and some sprightly tones — the echoes 
of youthful voices — broke the spell that bound us to this 
last conversation ; and we made bold with a friend to 
promenade into another part of the assembly. Whom 
we saw there — the dresses they wore — and what was 
said, will be disclosed as felicitously as possible at our 
next meeting. Gentle, kind, courteous, indulgent, im- 
-partial reader, this may be in our next paper — by the 
way, it is the only work which we* shall ever patronize or 
make reports for, as long as gentlemen cultivate whiskers, 
or ladies take literary papers, or persons borrow newspa- 
pers, or subscribers never pay. 

* These sketches were originally published under a fictitious 
name — which will account for this apparently unfixed declaration. 

15* 

/ 



174 LADY S SOIREE. 

NO. II. 

There stood in surpassed dignity and unsurpassable 
confidence, a conspicuously, prominent figure, a youth, 
whose height was about three feet ! But his intellectual 
stature was much greater. At least, he was, in his vain 
mother's opinion — a mental pyramid ! — a mental Him- 
melaya ! His conversation was such as no one of the last 
generation would dare to use. His words were of the 
lofty order. His ideas were derived ' from the schools ;' 
and his dress was such as would become a man of twenty- 
five ! No one would have thought that this seven-year- 
old boy could have conversed as he did, had not Infant 
Schools been established for several years. This conspicu- 
ous and important youth was Charles Carolinius Carrol 
Maydon — a son, as was remarked in a former number, of 
Mrs. Robert T. Maydon. 

There, too, stood in woman-like dignity, a young miss 
of seven or eight years, whose physical and intellectual 
statures were but a very little below — if in the least — 
those of Master Maydon. It was a daughter of Mrs. R. 
R. Sharnon. 

It was said in the last number that the echoes of youth- 
ful voices were heard. It may be well to present the 
main part of the conversation as it was taken down at the 
time. 

6 Do you so cogitate, Miss Sharnon ? My mental per- 
ception is at variance with yours. An atom is not so con- 
sidered generally by philosophers. Throughout the infi- 
nite aggregations of thought, it was never so esteemed. 
Multiply multiplicities of authorities, and never will there 
be detected in all the congestions of hypotheses or con- 
glomerations of theories, an author who maintains that an 
atom is anything else than the least divisible portion of 
matter. 5 



LADY 'S SOIREE. j 75 

1 Your perception is not transparent, Mr. Maydon. 
Examination will produce conviction. Authorities autho- 
rise me in declaring that an atom is, what I stated it to be. 
Forsaking, however, that part of the subject ; how mag- 
nificently, yet how simply is the world arranged ! How 
very curious ! The rotatory ball on whose surface we 
are puffed hither and thither, is constructed of amassed 
atoms — atom on atom rising to a world ; as I have seen 
bee on bee rising into a swarm ! ' 

Such was the style of conversation. The fluency of 
the speakers was so great that it was entirely impossible 
to copy all that was said. Not far distant from this group, 
stood Mr. Carteno, Mr. Lawton, and Mr. Bathune. 
They were much interested in their subject — a subject 
which parents, in the plenitude of their vanity, have flat- 
tered to the very detriment of their children. Let the 
conversation which follows serve to kindle thought and re- 
flection — and the result is not to be doubted. 

1 Infant Schools are,' said Mr. Lawton, ' in my opinion, 
the very scourge of the rising generation. I know of no- 
thing that is so decidedly deleterious to a child, as taxing 
its powers, and making attempts to bring out, as it is 
termed, the intellect.' 

'It seems to me,' said Mr. Carteno, 'that it is very 
much like picking a piece of machinery to pieces, to dis- 
cover its manner of movement. 5 

( It is so,' said Mr. Lawton. ' There is as much rea- 
son in tearing open the unexpanded bud, with clumsy fin- 
gers, to find out in what manner it will grow, as there is 
in tasking a child's mind, to make it know something in 
its childhood. We believe that the bud has all the essen- 
tials to make a perfect and beautiful rose — we believe 
that the child has within it the requisites to make a 
scholar — but why hasten the process which nature so 



276 LADY 'S SOIREE. 

fitly and so happily carries on ? Why strain the bow be- 
fore it is seasoned ! * 

' It is doubtless owing to the curiosity and vanity of pa- 
rents,' said Mr. Carteno. c There is perhaps no stronger 
desire in the minds of most parents, than that of having 
their children intellectual. But how very foolish — I 
should say, how very wicked to plant the seed of death in 
a child — to blast its physical powers and stature, for the 
sake of being pleased with precocity — with pretty speech- 
es and remarkable sayings.' 

'If,' said Mr. Bathune, 'great attention is paid, and 
great care is taken, children may doubtless be made bet- 
ter. A proper system of education may do much good. 
But it is so often the case that ignorant teachers are 
placed over children, the result is unhappy. I believe 
that Infant Schools, properly managed, may be of use — 
but there is, too often, too much tasking of the intellect — 
too much of dull study !' 

' Be so good, 5 said Mr. Lawton, ' as to observe Mrs. 
Maydon's son, and the daughter of Mrs. Sharnon. There 
you may observe two children almost, if not quite, ruined, 
by two ambitious and vain mothers, who think their chil- 
dren prodigies !' 

' It is, indeed, pitiful,' said Mr. Carteno, 'that such 
pretty children should be spoiled by the indiscriminate 
praises and caresses of their mothers. They are now un- 
ruly, headstrong and self-willed. Their mothers have no 
authority over them — and they are emphatically spoiled 
children.' 

Mr. Bathune was pleased with the remarks which the 
gentleman had made ; but he was one of those men, who 
never think — but move on with the current of popular 
opinion. He said that it was of course, sometimes, the 
case that people educated their children without reflec- 



LADY 'S SOIREE. 177 

tion ; but he was disposed to believe that Infant Schools 
were profitable to children. 

Mr. Lawton was entirely of opinion that Infant Schools, 
one and all, were but poor things. He agreed that they 
might be good, if conducted well ; but it was so often the 
case that they were conducted badly, he was decidedly 
and wholly opposed to them. 

«\£. AL. -AA. «A£- J£. JZ, 

rrv* "Tv* vv* "Tv* *7r *7?* 

Mr. Rodney and Dr. Omrest were now discoursing 
with our Lady. * I admire Bryant's poetry. It is so sim- 
ple — so quiet — so musical, yet it is not monotonous,' 
said Mr. Rodney. 

Dr. Omrest was a greater critic. 'His poetry I esteem 
highly,' said he; ' Do you think,' he continued, turning to 
our Lady, ' that Bryant writes so perfectly, so faultlessly 
as has been declared by some ?' 

c I do not,' said our Lady. ' In my opinion he writes 
not so correctly as some — he is by no means so original 
as many — and he does not handle his subjects in so mas- 
terly a manner as some. A poet of high order is one who 
sees with a poet's eye — who feels with a poet's soul. 
One who is not oblige to hammer out his poetry. To 
write a few pieces — to ornament a few sentiments with 
the figures of rhetoric, and the rules of poetry is what ve- 
ry — very many may accomplish, and in good style too ; 
but to strike on a great subjeet — to execute it even in 
tolerable style, are greater proofs of genius. They show 
that the stamina of poetry exist. For my part, Dr. Om- 
rest, I think I am justified in doubting the capability of a 
poet who, by dint of hammering, writes out three or four 
pieces in the course of a year. I cannot certainly pro- 
nounce such a one the first American poet.' 

' Neither can I,' said the Doctor. ■ I esteem that man 
the greatest in any profession, who accomplishes the 



178 LADY 'S SOIREE. 

greatest quantity in the best style. Bryant is a sweet 
poet. I love his writings ; but I cannot admire the adula- 
tion which is heaped upon him. It is truly ridiculous. 
As a poet, Dana is his equal — as a writer, I esteem him 
superior.' 

6 Dana is without doubt his superior as a poet,' said our 
Lady. But do you not consider Percival entitled to be 
called the first poet of our country ?' 

' I esteem Percival,' said Dr. Omrest, c by far, the man 

worthiest of being called the first poet. It is true that 

Dana and Bryant have given us productions of much value ; 

but where can be found a poet whose knowledge, whose 

genius is so remarkable. It is, indeed, lamentable that so 

fine a spirit should be condemned to live unhonored by 

his countrymen. 

' It is lamentable,' said our Lady. ' But there will be 

a time, I cannot but believe, when America will pay more 
attention to Poetry and the Fine Arts — and those among 
us who are now gloomy and desponding — and whose pro- 
ductions are rarely known, will be sought for, honored 
and even venerated.' 

c That day may come,' said the Doctor, c but I fear it is 
far distant. The productions of genius and talent are but 
little regarded. Wealth is the great goal to which the 
thoughts of our countrymen are turned, and I suspect that 
years will fly away before the creations of genius will be 
properly appreciated.' 



NO. III. 

Our Lady — to whom we are indebted for our invita- 
tion and attentions, was full of spirit, and whether she con- 
versed on literary, scientific or fashionable subjects, was 
equally at home in all. We were interested much in her 



LADY 'S SOIREE. 179 

remarks upon periodical publications, and her opinions 
were full of sound sense and very patriotic. She said that 
she could not believe that the public would long sustain so 
many truly English republications. It needed a very lit- 
tle time more to decide their fates. She wished — ear- 
nestly wished, that American publishers were obliged to 
pay for the works they print. She knew that here was 
much talent and genius falling into nought in the country, 
because there was so little high spirit abroad — so little 
determined opposition to republications which are sent 
forth for American patronage, to the detriment of Ameri- 
can literature. She believed that as it was to be ruled by 
fashion — there would be some effect. Many people had 
set their faces against, and kept their purse-strings closed 
against republications ; and she was glad — very glad that 
it was the case. She knew that many would not permit 
the common English reprints to be circulated in their fam- 
ilies ; and hoped that it would be the rule of all to give 
them no favor. 

Mrs. Robert T. May don and Mrs. Washington I. Ran- 
ton were chatting with all the loveliness imaginable. The 
former was dressed in a light brown ' gros de Swiss.' A 
broad lace cap was turned off of either shoulder, which 
was in fine keeping with her neatly crimped lace cap 
which fell over her forehead, a la Mary Queen of Scots. 
The latter was habited in a rich, white satin frock, which 
was of the most exquisite make and finish. Her head- 
dress was the theme of conversation for half of the eve- 
ning. It consisted of a very delicate, peach blossom col- 
or, crape turban, ornamented with golden wheat and 
spun glass. 

' My son is very industrious in his studies. He is pe- 
culiarly attentive I assure you to mathematics, and is al- 
ways enamored with poetry. He has been reading Per- 



230 LADY S SOIREE. 

cival's Prometheus to me lately, and I have been exceed- 
ingly pleased with the production, 5 said Mrs. May don. 
' You find it very pleasant, I have no doubt, in hearing 
your son read — I think it is delightful to hear a good 
reader, engaged upon a good production.' 'The time pas- 
ses away pleasantly and with some profit, 5 answered Mrs. 
Ranton. 

Here, our conversationists were interrupted by the ap- 
pearance of a gentleman, well dressed and white-gloved, 
who bowed and scraped himself into the presence of the la- 
dies, and then commenced a talk. He is well known as 
Tiresome CallofFen. c Ladies,' said Tiresome, ' it is a 
delightful evening. Is it not ? It is quite pleasant, after 
the labors of the day, to dismiss my school, and come to 
such a soiree as this. To be sure, some ignorant fellows 
will creep in here ; but some pretty respectable talents 
may be found. There are, however, more tares than 
wheat, I believe. For my part, I should like to have a 
company composed entirely of the literati. Then subjects 
of importance and interest could be considered and com- 
mented upon, and much useful knowledge could be circu- 
lated. Should 'nt you like such parties, ladies ?' 

' I think,' said Mrs. Maydon, ' that it is quite useless 
to break up all social relations for the sake of dissemin- 
ating knowledge among the literati. We shall, I suspect, 
never have any such parties unless there are more like 
yourself, Mr. CallofFen.' 

c Perhaps,' said Mrs. Ranton, e a clever company of 
schoolmasters would suit you. But I si ppose there are 
many in the profession, who think they know every thing 
when they know nothing.' 

' Oh, I hope you do not insinuate any thing against the 
profession,' said Mr CallofFen, ' That would be hard.' 

' Yes, I do,' said Mrs. Ranton, ' I think there are very 
many ignorant pedagogues.' 



LADY *2 SOIREE. 181 

c Well, it may be,' said CallofTen, ' but I never have 
seen them.' 

1 It is because he has not looked on the glass, 5 said 
Mrs. Ranton to Mrs. Maydon in an under tone, as Cal- 
lofTen excused himself, and turned toward another part of 
the room. 

1 Oh what has that soft creature been talking about V 
said Miss Waynim, as she advanced gaily forward to the 
ladies. ' Is he not the greatest egotist you ever saw ? 
Did you ever meet with such a chaotic mass before ? I 
declare he is the grandest specimen of the pedagogue ge- 
nus that I ever beheld. His white gloves are in fine 
keeping with his dress.' 

1 Do not talk of him,' said Mrs. Ranton, c He is such a 
compound of stupidity and softness that he ought to be 
ejected from society.' 

' He has been turned out of two or three houses for his 
officiousness and frequent comings, and if he would take 
all the hints that are sent to his ears, he would not find his 
way into any dwelling. He has come here to-night with- 
out an invitation, I understand.' 

■ I declare the stories told about him are really amu- 
sing ; and then he pretends to be such an odd character. 
He affects oddity I believe ; and if he does not, he should 
be put at the Insane retreat ; or have a guardian to su- 
perintend his affairs. It would be for his benefit,' said 
Miss Waynim. 

Here it was discovered that the party was thinning out, 
and breaking up. The piano was silent, and pair after pair 
of married and single couples took their leave of our lady. 
Bachelor as we was, alone, we made our bow and retired. 
What a scene of confusion was there at the door ! Bon- 
nets, calashes, and cloaks flying — hats jammed up — 
overshoes kicked about, and timorous rivals with their 
16 



232 CONFLAGRATION IN BOSTON HARBOR. 

hearts trembling like aspen leaves, and waiting, with hat in 
hand, for the presence and arm of their lady. It was pe- 
culiarly amusing to see one poor fellow, who was stand- 
ing on the tip-toe of expectation for the presence of Miss 

who had escaped his notice and slipped out of the 

door with another gentleman. I verily believe he waited 
there a half an hour, while I was looking for my hat which 
some one I suppose took by mistake, as I have not yet 
found it. 



CONFLAGRATION IN BOSTON HARBOR. 

Boston can boast of the possession of one of the lov- 
liest harbors in the world. The islands which stand like 
sentinels within it, or which girdle it like a zone of emer- 
alds connected by a silver chain, impart a beauty, and, as 
it were, a finish to it, which can never fail to charm the 
eye that looks down upon its waters. A fine landscape 
you are beholding, if, from some elevated situation, it is 
your fortune to look over and through its glittering path- 
ways; and its loveliness, always truly enchanting by sun- 
light, is increased, ay! and becomes almost like what might 
be imagined an ideal creation, when decorated by the 
1 magic of moonlight.' 

In sunlight or moonlight, however, we never saw its face 
glow with such splendor and gorgeousness as when at mid- 
night, years agone, a vessel was burning above its depths. 
The flames, as they flashed towaid the sky and illumined 
the waveless waters, making crimson the atmosphere and 
every object which their light rested upon, produced a 



CONFLAGRATION IN BOSTON HARBOR. ^3 

scene terribly grand and beautiful. The richness of col- 
oring could scarcely have been more vividly represented 
by the imagination of Milton. We doubt, indeed, whether 
the light of his Pandaemonium revealed to him objects so 
awfully and impressively colored as those which, on the 
night alluded to, seemed to attract every eye and touch 
every heart. From beneath and around the tongues of 
fire that licked the air, poured forth volumes of cloud 
which rolled onward and upward to the zenith — and the 
floating hull resembled some chained monster writhing in 
combat or maddened into fury by the agonies of death. 

The scene is now palpably before us. Far away, the 
islands, their white walls and towers plainly visible, seem 
to tremble at the presence of the blazing form which has 
thus unexpectedly torn the shroud of darkness from their 
bosoms. They seem, alternately, to rise toward and shrink 
back from the emblazoned clouds that wave their golden 
wings above — they would escape from the wrathful pre- 
sence which they are compelled to look upon — but the 
clouds fly on; and the islands, again and again, recoil, as it 
were, in despair. Hope, again and again, is kindled in them 
— they flutter as if about to soar, but only remain to tremble 
at the singular visitation. The clouds, too, move on and 
away, seeking the darkness in the East, or, perhaps, voyag- 
ing for the bright king who is wont to smile upon them, and 
invest them with the splendor of his court. Men, too, in 
crowds gather to watch the flaming form, and are full of the 
excitement of the scene — until Neptune, that useful and 
ancient ■ Captain of the Sea ' raises his head above and 
shakes his locks over the monster who has thus unlawfully 
invaded his realm. — Now all is peace, and on the face of 
the deep is darkness. 



184 



CHILDHOOD'S HOME, 



A PICTURE OF MEMORY. 

Where yon two tall elms raise high their heads, 

Over which the sun its lustre sheds, 

Where with age is bowed that time-worn fence, 

And above it waves the shrubbery dense, 

A cottage stands, and it now decays: 

This was the home of my early days ! 

Amid those high hills the waters lie, 
And beneath — above is cloudless sky; 
And an isle floats there like fairy land, 
Begirt with a zone of diamond sand; 
And 't will flash, as waves kiss it, and blaze: 
There did I sport in my early days! 

Where the willows bend down from the hill 
Their tassels of silver, bright and still, 
And above the stream, whose music seems 
But murmurs of love in happy dreams, 
Or the notes which flit from harps of fays — 
There did I muse in my early days. 



185 



PICTURES OF MEMORY, 



THE HOUSEHOLD. 



The roof is old. The moss-tufts green 
Cover each crevice, and their sheen 

Is diamond-gemmed with dew : 
A rosy girl of summers five, 

Her features fair and glowing, 
Plays in the sun, so all-alive, 

Her locks so light and flowing, 
She seems a fairy-child — a sprite, 
Just born to gratify the light — 

A vision sweet and new. 

II. 

A laughing boy, above a well, 
Is peeping down. He cannot tell 

What spirit is below. 
He wonders if he sees an elf ; 

It laughs when he is laughing. 
Is it the semblance of himself, 

Or someone water quaffing ? 
To find the truth, he calls aloud. 
Echo but mocks. The boy is proud, 

And chiding says ' I know. 5 



136 THE HOUSEHOLD. 

III. 

Within a porch, upon a chair 
Time-worn, and rich with carving rare, 

Supported by a staff, 
A grandfather, with wrinkled face 

And grey eyes dimly sparkling, 
Is watching some far distant place, 

As twilight there is darkling, — 
With anxious mind, — till down a steep 
A boy and girl like light fawns leap, 

Spring to his knee and laugh. 

IV. 

A grave-yard walk ! Amid its glooms 
Two marble slabs denote the tombs 

Of two, with whom decayed 
The grace of life and beauty's power — 

Whose primal virtues burning 
Were not the shadows of an hour, 

But winged doves heavenward turning ! 
Joined in their lives, in death they sleep, 
And ever more for them will weep 

That orphan boy and maid. 



J 



jL,4m~./t*1h 



^JkWEM OW OTMMOTi 



Page. 

The Pledge. A Legend of the Rhine, 5 

-Sketches of American Poets, - - • 20 

The Oath. From a Bequeathed Manuscript, 41 

The Willow and the Stream, - - - 48 

English Bards. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 54 

William Wordsworth, - * - 56 

Robert Southey, 60 

Portrait Painting, - - - - 68 

Maleena. A Story of the Indians, 70 

Painting, Sculpture and Poetry, - - * - 76 

Cultivation of the Fine Arts, ... 87 

The Voyage by Moonlight, - - - 93 

The Pool and Cascade, - ... 96 

The Brigand, - - - - 98 

The Old Dramatists, - - - - 109 

Reputation, ------ 113 

Tears, - - 121 

The Winter Hearth-Fire, - - - - 126 

Grammar, Rhetoric and Logic. An Allegory, - - 127 

Diary of the Abused. A Bequeathed Manuscript, - - 132 

Varieties of Scenery and of Life, - 140 

Ten Paragraphs, - 147 

Timothy Snaffle ton, - 155 

A Fable. The Squirrel and his Morning Visitor, - - 162 

Lady 's Soiree. No. 1. Reported Conversations, - 169 

" " No. 2. - - - 174 

" " No. 3. 178 

Conflagration in Boston Harbor, ... 185 

Ontarwa, 20 

Morning, - - 46 

A Vision, ..... 47 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

« 

Page. 

On the Death of Miss J. E. Vail, - - 49 

Evening, ----- 50 

Episode of the Second Book of Ossian's Fingal, - 51 

Hours of Childhood, 65 

From the Greek. Reasons for Drinking, - 67 

Reasons for Kissing. Imitation, 67 

The Idiot Boy. A Dramatic Sketch, - - - 80 

To Connecticut River, 84 

From the Greek, - - - - 84 

To Earth, ----- 85 

Courtship. — A Fable, - - - 86 

The Sylph, - - - - 95 

Lines on Names written on the Cupola of the Maverick House, 97 

To Ocean, ... 104 

A Roundelay. — From the Spanish, ... JQ5 

To a River, - - - . . J06 

Autumn, - - - - 108 

Low Chiming Bells, .... 117 

Introduction to the Common-Place Book of Miss S. F. A., - 118 

The Homeless Youth— A Ballad, - - - 119 

To a Lady uttering a Slanderous Word, - 120 

Hymen, . - - - - K5 

A Fact told in Rhyme, .... 129 

The Iceberg, - - - - 136 

Venetian Balcony-Song, - 139 

Sonnet, — Turner's Falls. Montague, by Moonlight, - 144 

O my Heart ! all thy Gladness, ... 149 

The Death unto thj World, - 150 

Song, - - - . . - 152 

Four Scenes, - 153 

To my Sister — on the Death of our Mother, - - 154 - 

The Prisoner, ----- I55 

Written in Dejection, ----- 159 

Song of the Light, - iqq 

Love. — From < Ralph, the Wanderer/ - - . 164 

The Dying Year's Address to the Soul, - - 166 

The Nightmair, ----- 157 

Childhood's Home, .... Ig4 

Pictures of Memory, — The Household, - - - 185 



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